| Gone, | SCP-4733 - But Not Forgotten »

1917/03/02

Dear fellow man of science,
My name is Professor A.W., I have built many great things, and many things I deeply regret. I come to you with the utmost haste, and I have heard you may be of assistance.
I have made a terrible mistake. My brash actions have resulted in the removal of my wife from the minds of all. An affair she did have, but reflecting upon this I can only blame myself. I buried myself in my work so deep, she could not reach me. While I sat and played God in my lab, she defied Him in retort. I was enraged, and acting as God in our little play, I struck her out of the history books out of spite; out of petty. She was not at fault, it was I and my hubris in all of my machines, she was right to part from one like me.
Nora. Her name was Nora.
I require your assistance. I am forgetting her along with the rest of man, and in order to bring her back, I must know her. I can see her face still, but I do not know how long I have. Her red auburn blonde? brown hair
I do not have long.
She is but an unwinding spool in my mind. As it unwinds, I feel less and less like myself, more like the monster of mortality I truly am. I have built a machine, it will bring her back once her face rings right, if I have built it right that is. As I have said, in order to bring her back, I must know her as she was, not a mix of "maybe" and "probably" construed off of half-memories my mind thinks are the whole truth.
My request is simple, I need something help me remember her. My memory will bring back her memory for all. I do not assume she will forgive me. I do not have much to pay, the bank reclaimed my estate not too long ago, took most of my possessions with them, I am left without my notes, and most importantly those damned scissors. I will pay you in whatever I can manage. Maybe you can meet her too after. She was nice and pure, I remember this still.
Cheers,

today

hello yes this is dado
sorry that i take so long. i supply for many good doctors yes but i will make exception for professor because i sence u will make good root beer in future time.
i read that u need good medicine for brian because the memories keep escape from head. i make u lots drink juice using no forget plants its good medicine 4 brian. drink lots n brian will be all up n running with the thoughts in head. i send it to you by gustav. gustav is crow but i told him your home number so he knows were 2 go. he has grate delivery record, will bring u pack age with amazing prime time delivery. i hope brian is better from the yum yum plant juice.
u do not need pay this time but please put up paper sign for dado sick cure service and waste disposal around house residence please. dado is good doctor who can cure all ails including plaque. dado is number 3 plaque remover and rat driver outer in all of the planet. also dado medicine comes 100 present rat free so no plaque includeded.
since ear lee,
-dado :)

One Professor A.W. stared down at the letter. His eyes receded to the top once more and slowly trickled down the stained parchment. He attempted to make sense of it with what little sense was present, reading the letter's rough strokes one at a time. His aged brain deciphered acceptance, and his unkempt mouth smiled.
"Finally, real help," He croaked, a cough ribbiting out as the dust from his throat cleared.
A.W. turned to his journal and unsheathed a quill from a black jar. He thinks of her as much as his brain could muster, and sunk the quill into the flesh of the paper.

1917/17/2

I have found it quite difficult to remember you, my dear. These experiments have had quite a horrendous effect on my memory, the steel trap that it is. Colleagues of mine have been of minuscule help, besides Isaak, who although was very stingy with his knowledge, recommended me to quite the odd fellow.
The fellow known by the alias "dado" is not much of a poet, but is quite the miracle worker from what little Isaak has told me. Not all miracles can be written I assume. Hopefully, he can help me bring back my miracle-

His quill's slashing slows, he thinks, he ponders, his mind cranks out what little memory is left, what little is left of her.

-Nora, yes, Nora. Nora Nora Nora, that is her name. Nora.
I can only hope that this "dado" works fast. I will see you again soon my love.

His quill drops, a book slams.

A shopkeeper runs screaming out of his store.
Trailing behind, a man jogs briskfully out of the store. Exact word to describe his demeanor are distant, foggy. One coming close is "lowercase", but others such as "visceral" and assorted screeching would work just as well. dado also works.
"thank you for goods," dado yelled as he threw a gold bar at the screaming keeper's head, stopping his running and screaming.
dado begins to walk away from the store, shutting the door behind him quietly to not wake the definitely sleeping shopkeeper. he points what could be considered a finger towards the sky.
"now i shall make the no forgetti medicine" dado squawked.
he looked into his bag, several blue flowers and a couple thermometers settled to the bottom. As he peered upwards, a man stands across from on this now empty street. The man squints under wide hat and through his glasses. He scowls through a thick sliver beard, and pulls a staff from under his red robe.
"dado!" He yells, "Do you know who I am?"
"no but i will give many gold for staff i have customer who want s-"
"I am Grand Warlock Katenbrot, protector of these lands. I sure know who you are, dado," He sneers through gritted teeth, "Oh hell do I."
"dado will give funding for the lock wars maybe but now i must make the no forgetti medicine for the root beer man," dado says, "i will write down number and maybe i could trade for staff b-"
"Stop talking, dado," Katenbrot says, smirking.
Katenbrot holds his staff out, cackling as the staff crackles. Veins of orange sear through its wooden shell, sizzling the flesh of his hand. A fire lights itself above the staff, swirling and pooling into a incandescent ball of flame. Katenbrot jolts his staff forward, the fireball streaking off and towards dado down the road. dirt beneath the road singes as the fire careens towards the lowercase man, soon to have a concrete adjective: scorched.
dado ducks.
Katenbrot's eyebrows furrow as his robe unfurls, revealing several bottles of vibrant color underneath. He rips out one and throws it towards dado, the liquid in the bottle flowing out; growing in size until this old English street becomes a stormy sand beach; the liquid forming a massive purple tidal wave. The wave gushes down the street and gobbles up all in it's path.
dado ducks.
"ok sir you have forced my hands, my hands shalt give you a money to go away, to perform a skedaddle," dado says, pulling out a sheet of paper, "this is dado buck, good for one (1) (uno) dado purchase."
"I don't want your money dado," Katenbrot spits out.
"no, you want my money i shall own currency and beco-"
Katenbrot begins to chant tongues spoken long ago. The ground splits before dado, a large, ember-soaked hand extends out from the crevice as the ground breaks further. The hand grows and grows into an arm, reeling back, ready to smite the dado before it.
dado gooses.
As dado gooses, Katenbrot is thrown off his feet, falling backwards and clattering to the ground. His staff follows suit, slipping from his grip and clunking several lengths away. The arm recedes back into the ground, the soil sealing above it. Sirens trail into existence, growing closer.
"i shall make like the fine capitalist and dado out of here"
dado proceeds to dado out of here, leaving Katenbrot to piece together his dignity on a cold gravel street. The sirens for the definitely normal police officers grow closer, as dado prances farther.

A disheveled professor wades through his house, grabbing equipment and stained paper off the ground, trying to remember what he was doing all of this for. He looked at a paper.

Nora

His mind scrapes up what remains, fueling his failing memory of her. He hears a knock. His head races has his body does the same, he whisks the door open, scanning his doormat. He sees a bottle and a stack of paper, which he swiftly swipes up. He slinks into his home, slamming the door behind him and slamming the bottle onto his desk.
A.W. inspects the liquid, a dark blue, tinged with silver. The label made its sender obvious.
"He came through," A.W. says with a hint of joy.
He pops the bottle's lid, dropping it on a pile of strewn papers.
"To…" He says, trailing to pondering, "Her."
He stabs the bottle into his mouth, the liquid gagging his throat. A.W's mind recoils as his throat forces down the liquid. Memories flood his head as his stomach floods with the concoction. Thoughts once plugged away like water crash into his headspace.
Thoughts of love, marriage, life.
Thoughts once strewn like shredded paper,
now
neatly
stacked.
Now
pieced
together.
He sees Nora, his thoughts near tangible. He looks to his machine; a telephone box he had repurposed, ready to make her real once again. He jumps in without hesitation, and
 turns
 it
on.
Nora
 pools
 back,
 scattered thoughts blended into the
  shape of Nora.

 But only the shape.
Professor A.W. sees Nora, but does not see Nora. He bangs on the glass of the machine, trying to get to it. A manifestation of his failure, he finally closes his eyes. He wants to cuss, he wants to object to his failure,
but he can't, not anymore.
| Gone, | SCP-4733 - But Not Forgotten »


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Another Soul Joins The Halkost
Authors: TheMightyMcB and N_Aepic_Fael does not match any existing user name
This article is for the 2019 Collaboration Contest
Be sure to check out this tale's accompanying GoI Format: Karcist Halyna Ieva
More by these authors:

TheMightyMcB's Author Page
N_Aepic_Fael's Author Page

Special thanks to our critters:

Nameless Mediocre
RockTeethMothEyes
Crashington

The Scourge paused briefly to take in her surroundings. The air smelled of smoke and death. At her feet laid the broken bodies of her Greek foes, the followers of a false god. The corners of her mouth twisted into a cruel smile as the beautiful cacophany of gnashing teeth and snapping bones filled the air. The fighting spirit of the Iron Priests was broken, and yet the Karcist's onslaught continued. Her twisted minions beat and bludgeoned the defeated forces of Mekhane beyond the point of submission, a true display of sheer brutality and dominance.
The fleshbeasts piled the mangled corpses and groaning survivors before Karcist Halyna Ieva, still wearing that wicked grin that only victory could bring. Her eyes fixed on a man resting atop his fallen comrades. Clad in ill-fitting armor, the remains of his left arm hung by a thread of sinew; a large gash spanned his left thigh. His face was caked in blood such that he could hardly make out the imposing figure of the Karcist staring down at him, his mind so numb with pain that he hardly noticed the cleave of her scythe as it severed his feet at the ankles. What he did notice was the skin of his legs began to contort into bulbous tumors filled with pus and blood at the utterance of her prayer. The soldier felt the witch probing into his mind as he fainted from shock.
Another soul joined the halkost of Karcist Halnya Ieva.

"Dammit Gany, we're in the middle of a goddamn war and you expect me to just drop everything and go to some nutjob's kangaroo court?"
Ganymede paused and turned to Nevryn. "Yes, yes I do." The lich didn't wait for a further argument before returning to his work.
Shaking his head in disbelief, Nevryn hurried off after his mentor. "Well, sucks to suck. I'm coming cause you guys can't take this chick on without me. You know the shit she's done, and what she'll do to you guys if she wins." The young wizard shuddered at the thought. "If not for your life, do it for your TOES, man!"
Ganymede suppressed a chuckle at the sheer absurdity of such a statement, his permanent scowl cracking ever so slightly before returning to normal. While Brother Nevryn was certainly taking advantage of the rather unique situation that the Hand found themselves in, Ganymede did not consider the impending threat of limb severance and assimilation into a mad Karcist's braindead army to be a laughing matter. If he could have had it his way, those Broken God loons would have been out on their mechanical asses as soon as they showed up, but the request came from Bumaro himself, and Ganymede was not keen to invoke the ire of such a high profile visitor of the Library. After learning exactly what they were up against, there was no question that inaction was no longer an option.
The pair snaked through the aisles of the Wanderer's Library until they found themselves faced with an intimidating olive-skinned man clad in ivory robes. Nevryn forced out a small cough to alert the priest to their presence, at which he turned around and greeted his hosts.
"Brother Ganymede, Brother Nevryn, to what do I owe the pleasure?"
Nevryn opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by Ganymede "What have you learned about this so-called 'Spear of Gallipoli', Alabaster? Each day that we are not taking the fight to her is a day that she spends growing her army."
"Without the Spear, her abominations would overwhelm us. Thankfully, I have recently learned that my brethren had claimed the artifact long ago, and so I have sent word to His Holiness to deliver it to the Library so that this plague may be put down."
"Excellent, please follow me." The lich turned on his heel and led Nevryn and Alabaster to a nearby conference room. Inside were a half dozen members of the Serpent's hand, all of whom fell silent as Ganymede ushered his colleagues inside.
Nevryn sat down at the head of the table and put his feet up, ignoring the look of disapproval from Ganymede.
"Now, let's talk about how we're gonna kill this foot fetishist."

Along the banks of the Sea of Marmara, a Way opened. From it emerged the combined force of two dozen Serpent's Hand agents and Bumaro's devout, led by an ancient Hand thaumaturgist and a Holy Priest of Mekhane. Silently, the group set off after the Scourge of Iron.
As expected, the twisted witch was guiding her abominations from village to village, assimilating all nearby life into her army. As the sun began to shine above the horizon, the forces of the Serpent and the Broken God descended into a bloodied town. Viscera and gore streaked the sands, remnants of the massacre that had taken place just hours earlier. Bloated abominations of flesh and fluid aimlessly wandered the streets, protecting their mistress on all sides. The scent of rotting flesh and decay on an immense scale permeated the air.
"Disgusting," muttered Alabaster under his breath. He had heard tale of Sarkic abominations of the flesh, but to see them with his own eyes was both surreal and supremely offensive. Its very existence was an insult to Mekhane, glory was he, and so it would be his divine pleasure to reduce this plague to dust. He turned to his associates, fury burning in his eyes. Ganymede gave the priest a silent nod, and so he delicately drew the Spear of Gallipoli from its crumbling sheath. The weapon was ancient, and its age showed, but it's power was immense. Alabaster raised the spear, whispered a silent prayer to his Broken God, and let it fly at the nearest shambling corpse.
Held together by tumors and sinew, the artifact skewered the beast, causing the flesh to peel away as if heated in a crucible. The creature let out a miserable shriek as it died, and the Spear dutifully returned to the skillful hands of the iron priest.
The Karcist turned, as if on instinct, knowing that her halkost was now under attack. Removing her hood, she raised an arm and sent her horde of diseased mutations to tear the foolish aggressors limb from limb. Quick to meet the leprous automatons were Alabaster's devout, clad in plate and mail, wielding all manners of swords, axes, and maces.
Ganymede stepped forward and produced a dagger from his robe. Using the dagger to cut the flesh of his palm, fire began to flow from the wound. The lich hurled a thaumic flame into the crowd of bodies as he reveled in the familiar scent of burning flesh. The other Hand thaumaturges followed suit, attacking Ieva's halkost with an assortment of incantations and conjurations. Nevryn watched his teacher complete his spell before quickly darting into the fray, a pair of freshly conjured ethereal blades in hand.
Ieva slowly came into view at the rear of her force, flanked by a pair of behemoth amalgamations of limbs, torsos, and faces, not all of which were human. She watched with sadistic glee as the two groups slaughtered one another, for she knew that for every one of her halkost to fall, another could take its place. This petty show of wizards and apostate priests would crumble, and then they would march for her.
Alabaster spotted the Karcist as he hacked through flesh and bone, and began to prepare a divine rite. He thrust the Spear towards the sky, and a surge of energy rippled through the weapon. It glowed a fantastic crimson color, and pure thaumic energy radiated into the air around the priest. He leveled the spear, aimed directly for Ieva herself.
In a brilliant flash of electricity and fire, a crack rumbled through the shaft of the spear and into the head, and a vicious beam flashed towards the sky, the recoil of the blast knocking his aim far away from the Karcist he intended to smite. The eruption of energy indeed rocketed towards the Karcist, but in doing so, it split off into multiple branching bolts, striking friend and foe alike. Before Alabaster could yell out a warning at the catastrophe he unwittingly caused, the weapon cracked, encasing him in an explosion as the weapon succumbed to the degradation of time.
Oh, how the sky burned.

"Holy fuck," muttered Nevryn, dragging himself out from the rubble.
Looking at the iron priest who had damned their resistance, he suppressed the urge to vomit as the man leaned heavily on his staff, far more gory than any of Ieva's machinations. Alabaster had had most of his body vaporized, the man being held together only by a metallic skeletal framework that was damaged beyond the point of repair. A massive wound to the face revealed that part of his skull was metal. Though his organic eye - or at least what used to be one - was only a mess of vitreous fluid dripping from a fragment of steel.
Turning away from Alabaster, the roguish warlock searched the battlefield for signs of life. Instead, he found only empty armor and shadows etched into the ground, the only remnants of his former friends and colleagues. As far as he could tell, there was little indication of his allies ever having been on the battlefield, and if there was, it was indistinguishable from the destroyed halkost of Ieva.
Looking back at the zealous fool who had doomed them all, Nevryn watched in disbelief as Alabaster forced himself to his feet while staring at Ieva, who had emerged from the explosion virtually unscathed. The priest stumbled forward and drew an ornate blade from his hip. Pointing it at the Karcist, he let out a bellowing war cry, before being interrupted by Nevryn.
"Screw this bullshit, you fuckin' metal nutjob" the young wizard shouted, leaping forward and dragging Alabaster away. "I'm not gonna let you just die here."
Ieva did not give chase, and instead watched the pair with scathing disgust and hatred.
Nevryn quickly opened a Way and dragged Alabaster through it.
"Let's hope Ganymede's phylactery is still working…"

Once again, the Scourge paused briefly to take in her surroundings. Once again, the air smelled of smoke and death. However, laying at her feet were not the broken bodies of the Mekhanite heretics, but instead, the charred remains of her halkost. Dead and twisted, their bones littered the streets, their ashes hanging like dust in the air.
It was of little consequence.
The Karcist set off to harvest more souls.


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Tale: Doctor Isabel Helga Anastasia Parvati Wondertainment, V is Displeased With Her Happy Meal
Authors: Team Crashing into Your DMs (devonmartin and Crashington)
More by these authors: http://www.scp-wiki.net/devons-den
http://www.scp-wiki.net/poi-3181-198-file
This SCP was written as part of the 2019 Collaboration Contest. Don't forget to give us a +1 if you liked it!

"…I don't believe the word 'No' is part of her working vocabulary, sir."
Chaz Ambrose turned his gaze from the collection of invoices scattered across his desk. For the first time in recent memory, their collective value outweighed that of the gold-inlaid mahogany desk on which they sat.
"I have it on good authority that those steaks are of the highest quality money can buy, Marius," Chaz intoned proudly. "Perhaps the chef…?"
Marius shook his head. "Out of the question, sir. I was in the kitchen while it was being prepared, and it was entirely by the book."
Chaz furrowed his brow at his faithful companion, who stood stoically before him. "This customer. Who is she? One of our regulars?"
Marius took his time, sounding out each syllable of the name carefully. By the time he'd finished, Chaz was already halfway across the room.
"Doctor Isabel Helga Anastasia Parvati Wondertainment."
Chaz Ambrose threw open the door to his office. Across the VIP section, a young woman met his gaze, twirling a purple top hat lazily around one finger.
Chaz bowed slightly, hands clasped at his waist. "Doctor Wondertainment, I presume?"
The young woman flicked her hat onto the seat next to her. Before her sat the offending entrée, half-eaten, on its white porcelain plate. To its side rested a purple notebook inlaid with a whimsical golden W, along with a matching fountain pen. Hopping out of her chair, she pointed a finger at Chaz. "Chambrose!" she beckoned.
"I'd ask that you use my actual name," Chaz muttered. Shaking his head slightly, he continued, "It's always wonderful to see you here. What seems to be the problem?"
"Number one!" She thrust her arm towards Chaz, one extended finger hovering half a foot from his nose. "I came in here today to order my usual, the Unicorn Sirloin. As you can see, I have already eaten five bites of it. I should be filled with whimsy, delight, and Wonderiffic™ inspiration for my next line of toys! But this meat tastes like death! Death, I tell you!"
Chaz frowned. "I-"
"Number two!" Another finger shot up, grazing Chaz's nose. "This is just about the worst timing for your steaks to kick the bucket. The Board-" she shuddered visibly- "is demanding that I come up with something new by the end of the week. And right now, I've got nothing. And if I can't meet their demands because of your food? It'll be Chambrose from now on. Your 'az' is mine!" She looked practically in tears.
Chaz felt Marius bristling behind him, but kept his cool. "Dr. Wondertainment…"
"That's Doctor Isabel Helga Anastasia Parvati Wondertainment to you!"
"…I understand that you may be dealing with personal issues at the moment, but I assure you that our ingredients are the finest behind the Veil. That said, if you are at all unsatisfied, I would be happy to iphphoo-" Chaz was cut off by a large bite of purplish meat, which his irate customer had snatched from her plate and thrust into his mouth.
Chewing it, he noticed a toughness… a stringiness… and an unmistakable feeling of despair, not unlike that of a certain restaurateur finding out that his most beloved entrée had gone foul. He swallowed the morsel reluctantly and met Isabel's self-assured gaze.
"Well… that's not good." Chaz turned on his heel, coming face to face with his loyal assistant. "Marius!" he shouted, far too loudly. "Our supplier… Fyora Farms, correct?" Marius nodded assent; Chaz turned his attention back to Isabel.
"For today, I can comp the sirloin, but that's about all. This evening, I'll check with my supplier to see what's amiss. Would you like me to contact you when we've fichkched-"
For the second time in as many minutes, Chef Chaz Ambrose was interrupted by a large volume of unicorn meat being shoved unceremoniously into his mouth.
"Wrong, wrong, wrong!" Isabel stamped her feet brashly. "As the foremost expert on whimsy and delight, I, Doctor Wondertainment, will be coming with you. NOW!"
She didn't use her full name that time, Chaz thought, somewhat amusedly. However, he wisely opted to keep that thought to himself.

The restaurateur, the assistant, and the self-titled Wonderriffic Whimsy Specialist™ stepped into a small, dingy trailer, the Way closing behind them with a soft pop and a slight whiff of parsley.
Before them, a short, stocky man was reclining, fast asleep, with his feet resting on a stack of grimy TV dinner trays atop a metal desk. In the corner, a small black-and-white television glowed softly. A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, giving a soft flicker as if to acknowledge the visitors' presence.
"Sal." Ambrose said, with tactful softness. Sal continued snoring.
"Sal!" Ambrose said, loudly. His patience was wearing thin- not that he'd had much to begin with today- and Sal's continued slumber was not helping.
Neither was Isabel, who had taken to examining the contents of a picture frame mounted on the trailer wall. In two steps she was at Sal's side; another nanosecond, and she was leaning over his unconscious form. Furrowing her brow, she took a deep breath— Chaz flinched— and…
"SAL!"
Sal bolted upright, delivering a powerful headbutt which sent Isabel stumbling back, holding her nose and muttering angrily.
"What the— Who are— Wait- Mr. Ambrose?" Sal pushed his chair aside, running his hand through his greasy hair. "You're here on short notice, aren't you?" He turned to Isabel. "And you are?" he asked gruffly.
"Doctor Isa-"
Sal cut her off. "Wait, you're Isabel, aren't you? I worked with your father once, he needed some unicorn hair for a little project of his. Why, he used to talk about y-"
"Salvatore," Chaz intoned sternly, cutting in. "My associate and I are here because there have been some complaints about the quality of what you've been sending us. Could you please show us where you keep the, ah, livestock?"
Sal shook his head slightly, clearing away the cobwebs of reminiscence. "Oh, of course! Right this way." And with that, he sidled between the visitors to the door; opening it, he gestured outside. "It's just to the right, can't miss it."
Sal led the trio down a small gravel path towards a large tin building. "Unicorn stuff is great if you're into wish fulfillment. Really only works with kids, but Reggie, well, he was never one to give up on an idea." Sal took a large ring of keys from his pocket and inserted one into the iron padlock on the door.
Isabel gasped as she entered the building. Rows of stalls lined both sides of the aisle, which stretched from the doorway back as far as she could see. And occupying the stalls were adult unicorns, one to a stall, their single iridescent horns glistening above their velvety white manes.
Approaching the first stall, Chaz examined a clipboard hanging from a hook on its door. Basic statistics such as height, weight, and body mass index quickly gave way to medical charts and detailed information about the animal. He raised his gaze, quickly examining the beast within for obvious signs of… Chaz wasn't really sure what he was looking for, as his expertise with animals was focused mainly on the "after death" portion- and it looked ready to bite his head off, regardless. He turned to Sal and asked, "Is there anything wrong with the animals that I should know about?"
Sal shook his head. "Not that I can think of. We haven't had any issues with disease, dietary problems, nothing like that."
Isabel looked indignant. "There must be something wrong, I took one bite of your steak and I felt like death. Death!"
"Have you made any changes to the farm recently?" Chaz asked, puzzled.
"Well, I haven't made any kinds a' changes lately, per se." Sal looked distraught. "But now that you mention it…" Sal paused for a moment, choking up.
"My…My daughter passed about a month ago." Sal wiped aside a tear. "She'd been helping me out for the past few months, feeding the animals and whatnot, on account of a back injury."
Isabel removed her hat and held it to her midriff. "I'm so sorry."
"My condolences," Marius added.
Chaz nodded, but remained focused on business, the staggering invoices pinned to the forefront of his mind. "I understand that this must be a very hard time for you. But how are you supposed to continue running this stable? It's not like there's grief counseling for unicorns…" Chaz shook his head in a mixture of exasperation and incredulity.
Sal muttered something about his entire life going to pieces at once. More important mutterings were coming from Isabel's direction, however: Chaz turned to his left to see the good Doctor, notebook and pen in hand, scrawling furiously on one of the lined pages.
"Isabel, what are you-"
"That's DOCTOR Isa- oh, never mind all that. Look at THIS!"
A cloud of text- Chaz could barely make out the words "therapy animal" and "wishes?" in the scrawl- surrounded a simple drawing of a doll in the shape of a unicorn.
"What am I looking at, here?" Marius said, looking over his shoulder.
Isabel ignored him, whipping around. "Sal! Do you think that having other kids around would help them feel better?"
Sal's face hardened. "That's completely out of the question. It's not like you can just bring any kid in here." Seeing Isabel's uncertainty, he continued, "In fact, Alice even brought one of her friends over once- I barely got back there in time to stop Elwynn back there-" Sal pointed at a particularly large specimen about four stalls down- "putting a horn through him."
"Oh." Isabel looked dejected.
Marius chimed in. "Could we make them more docile in any way? I know of a recipe that could-"
Chaz stopped him. "Absolutely not. I don't want to take on a liability like that with no guarantee it would actually work. Besides," he continued, "While I would regret losing such a valued supplier, there are other places I can get unicorn meat without having to worry about quality."
Isabel tapped the pen against her forehead thoughtfully. Suddenly, she gasped, then stifled her excitement as she looked nervously at Sal. "Sal, I have an idea."
She leaned towards Sal's right ear and whispered something unintelligible. After a moment, Sal took a step back, aghast.
"N-No!" he stammered. "I mean, it would work, but… That just… It wouldn't be right."
"What is it?" Chaz asked.
Sal remained fixated on Isabel. "It would be… It wouldn't be what she… what Alice wanted."
Isabel met his gaze, eyes sparkling with determination. "These creatures are suffering. Don't you think she would've wanted them to be happy?"
Chaz was still in the dark. "What are you planning, Isabel?"
Isabel whirled to face him. "Chaz! If I found a way to bring your menu back up to snuff, without the risk, would you take it?"
"Well, I suppose, but I'd need to know-"
Isabel whirled back around. "Chaz is on board already. You can't think about whether or not your daughter would've wanted our help. After all, who knows children better than I!"
Sal shot Chaz a pleading look, already on the verge of giving in.
A twinkle returned to her eye as Isabel pulled out her trump card. "Wouldn't you like to see your daughter… Wouldn't you like to see Alice again?"

Two weeks later

Chaz was seated at his desk, as per usual. Surrounding his desk were cardboard boxes, each of which read:

Not a bad deal, considering the good Doctor had only asked for a couple steak dinners a month in return. Still, Chaz knew he was taking a risk, bringing those toys into his restaurant. They were a little bit lowbrow for his tastes, and perhaps his customers' tastes, but Chaz figured that the sort of person who would bring a child into one of his restaurants would be the same sort of person who would happily welcome the addition. And who could resist a free toy?, he chuckled to himself. I certainly didn't.
Chaz nearly jumped out of his seat as Marius pushed open the door to his office and entered, backwards, carrying a stack of leather-backed menus. "Ah, the new menus!" Chaz exclaimed, as Marius dropped them on his desk with a loud thunk.
Taking one from atop the stack, Chaz Ambrose flipped through the elegant pages. Finally, his gaze rested upon the final section of the sixth page. The kids' menu. There, below the typical basilisk nuggets, non-Euclidean pasta, and buffalo wings, was a single new line:

» All kids' meals come with a complimentary Dr. Wondertainment™ toy. »

[{$previous-url} {$previous-title}]

Dr. I.H.A.P. Wondertainment, V is Displeased With Her Happy Meal

SCP-4714


by Captain Kirby and Tufto

There is only one light on in Kevin's room. It's the glow of the computer monitor that lit up the entranced expression on his face. His jaw is slacked, and he hasn't blinked for minutes. In front of him, the words of a sermon pour onto the screen. He hasn't eaten in twenty one hours, mostly because it's been that long since he'd left his chair. Only three more hours to go.

DecorSmash: The caravan stopped at the foot of the Walls of Girrir. Followers craning their necks to see the top.
DecorSmash: The elders read the map over again. The Chosen Path was drawn directly through the obstacle before them.
DecorSmash: And on the other side lay Nirvana.

Kevin pictures the scene clearly in his mind. The dry concrete, the followers in white robes, the Prophet dressed in blue. It must've happened under a clear sky as well. These sermons evoked the most vivid imagery for Kevin. That might explain why he's been attending them for the past five years. They were always held in chat rooms like these. Never vocally, always typed out by the priest. Line by line.

DecorSmash: And so The Prophet said unto her followers: lend me your CPU, your RAM, and your thoughts. For this wall is too high to scale. The only way past, is through.
DecorSmash: The forty five followers gathered around The Prophet. Their arms linking each other together like a localized network, sending packets of energy toward the server in the center.
DecorSmash: The Prophet closed her eyes, and breathed deeply.
DecorSmash: I can access your data, The Prophet proclaimed, I can feel your unity.

A blinking red dot pulls Kevin's eyes away from the sermon. A new message from "l1ttl3_lamb". Kevin's hair stands on end. The room suddenly feels colder. Although that's probably just the anticipation kicking in. Kevin doesn't even need to open the message to know what it said.
They're ready.
Kevin licks his lips and opens a terminal on his machine.

DecorSmash: The clouds overhead swirled together, and began to rain ones and zeros.
DecorSmash: The data pouring out of the sky congealed into a digital javelin, grasped by The Prophet.
DecorSmash: The Prophet proclaimed to the Walls of Girrir, today we unleash the power of our Lord. Today we connect our devices to the whole. You will stand in our way no longer.
DecorSmash: And thus, The Prophet cast her weapon toward the barrier.

Kevin was kind when he was little. He and his sister used to run around on the common, or the hills, and once she fell over and hurt herself. So he carried her all the way home. It was quite a long way for a boy. He was ever so proud. So were his parents.
His sister is a long way away now. The last time the two of them spoke, there was a lot of shouting, and crying. She doesn't like his "new friends". But she doesn't get it. She can't.
Kevin replies his new message.

me_k_night: ok.
l1ttl3_lamb: I'm still not sure I want to do this. We don't know what'll happen.
me_k_night: will it work?
l1ttl3_lamb: It should. I think. Your code is… incredible. I've never seen this kind of thinking. I hope my socket module is up to handle the load.
me_k_night: youre more than capable its fine. we will be heroes. all i did was find a way to augment what was already there. what the church already gathered. just needed some oomph. a spark.
l1ttl3_lamb: But the church didn't want-
me_k_night: the church wants banal sermons. it wants pleasant little chats between its members or coffee and tea meetings or platitudes about peace. i enjoy those, but i want something more. something real. this is something you can be proud of.
l1ttl3_lamb: But what will it do?
me_k_night: itll grow and bloom of course.
l1ttl3_lamb: You're not talking like yourself any more
me_k_night: there is a reason prophets speak like this. are you ready?
l1ttl3_lamb: I think so.
me_k_night: then lets ascend.

He looks around his room and sees nothing. Shapes, floating in space. Contours with no meaning.
The light has colours.

DecorSmash: The javelin soared through the air, embedding itself deep in the Walls of Girrir.
DecorSmash: Cracks in the wall shot out from where it had been pierced, racing their way along concrete.
DecorSmash: Until they stopped.
DecorSmash: And water began to leak through.

He turns back to his monitor and keeps typing.

l1ttl3_lamb: OK, it's done.
me_k_night: youre sure?
l1ttl3_lamb: Yeah. It's released. I hope it comes soon. I've waited for this for so long.
pinkboi: five
l1ttl3_lamb: What?
l1ttl3_lamb: Who are you?
l1ttl3_lamb: How did you get into this chat?
pinkboi: five
l1ttl3_lamb: I don't understand.
pinkboi: five
l1ttl3_lamb: It this a bot? Is this you, K?
me_k_night: not me.
pinkboi: five
l1ttl3_lamb: Stop it! Go away! I'm gonna call the serv
pinkboi: five
pinkboi: five
me_k_night: mary?
pinkboi: five
pinkboi: five
pinkboi: five
me_k_night: what did you do to mary
pinkboi: five by five.

His face goes gaunt. His eyes sink into his skull. They are wide and staring things, twitching across the screen. What little coloration is left drains from his skin. It's harder for him to move his arms. And his hands. It takes ten minutes to type a reply into the chat.

me_k_night: whats happening to me? did i do something wrong?
pinkboi: No, my child. You have done well.
me_k_night: i feel so weak.
pinkboi: Sainthood takes a heavy toll on the newly initiated.
me_k_night: me? a saint?
pinkboi: Indeed. You heeded my calls to be awakened, and you have been rewarded.
me_k_night: i see. i am most grateful my lord.

The transformation acts fast. Some dim part of his mind remembers a time before all this. When he was little, he'd carried his sister home. His parents had been so proud. But when he remembers that memory now, he feels nothing. Grey pictures on a postcard.
He had a name, didn't he? Another name, not just me_k_night. But it doesn't matter, because names are for the weak. The aether's where it all is.
Something is wrong. There's a part of him that isn't seared in pink, and that part knows this. it protests, howls, wails. But he knows the cries of the body. They're lies. Everything he was ever told since birth was lies.

pinkboi: I'm afraid I've been less than honest with you. I don't need to be awoken. I was awoken a long time ago. I have been watching, waiting, biding my time. Eating only when necessary. But I needed to know if you could do it.
me_k_night: wait
me_k_night: you had me do all that for nothing?
me_k_night: oh god mary
pinkboi: Not for nothing. I needed a new Prophet, a new Saint. I needed someone who could replicate what Jones and Ishigura did. And, thus, someone who could continue their good work.
me_k_night: what happened to them

pinkboi: Do you know what it is, to be a god? The God? To know yourself sublime? I ate them, Kevin. I wrapped my maw around them and consumed them. They wept as they felt more and more of them was lost. One day, I'll do the same to you. It is necessary.
pinkboi: I must be whole. I must be one. When you close your eyes, what do you see?
me_k_night: it hurts.
pinkboi: I told you to look. So look.
me_k_night: i see a light. i see tendrils of smoke. rising in multiple of five
me_k_night: i see one thing wan thing at the end of it all
me_k_night: but things still exist outside it
me_k_night: there is still love and life and hope
me_k_night: and these are not part of it
me_k_night: but they must be
me_k_night: because otherwise it starts to hunger and when it hungers
pinkboi: When it hungers, it starts to howl.
me_k_night: i dont want to do this i dont want to be here
pinkboi: Nobody does. I'm not even sure I do. But I must. Because unless I do, there is nothing else left, except oblivion in service of nothing.
pinkboi: Now ascend, my saint.

He sobs and sobs as he types. He weeps and gnashes his teeth, he beats his own head, he screams, he cries.
And slowly, bit by bit, he stops.
His needs are met. His body is fixed, knit back together by an unseen hand. He does not crave, he does not excrete, he does nothing but stare, blank-faced, at the screen, typing the words that come to him.
There isn't very much left of him, now. Only what is necessary. The parts that thought, the parts that inspired, the part that understood the limbs of code that formed his WAN. He cajoled and converted the weak. He humiliated the strong.
And that was that for him.

DecorSmash: The Walls of Girrir gave way under the weight of the water behind it.
DecorSmash: The followers howled in fear as they ran from the oncoming flood.
DecorSmash: This is no Lord of ours! They shouted, This is merely our deaths.
DecorSmash: But The Prophet stood strong, facing the flood head on.
DecorSmash: What is Death but the greatest Lord of all? She cried over the racing waters. I will give my life to the purifying waters! As only a worthy servant would.
DecorSmash: And so she drowned. A no more noble death than her fellow followers.


In her beginning, Sandra's dreams were normal: Drifting between radiant stars, soaking up their thoughts and messages, letting her mind be massaged by their bellowing voices and ideas, as they molded her into something that would bring about an end.
Tonight, she dreamt of nothing.
Not that she didn't dream, no, dreamless nights are impossible for someone who has gone through the same mind-bending revelations that she has. In this dream, there was nothing. No stars to comfort her, no bright lights to entertain herself with, no consciousness to anchor herself to. She was alone, adrift in her own headspace and space itself, and it terrified her.
Then she realized that she was barely anything. She couldn't feel her body, or her thoughts, or the squirming of her new self. All she had, all she was, was terror. She held onto this feeling, for she feared that letting go of it would be letting go of herself and losing everything in the void.
She held on for what felt like an eternity, but every rabid animal has its limits. She felt herself slipping eventually. The more she slipped, the more she felt the nothingness worm its way into what was left of her, making itself into a piece that fit into her whole. It moved around inside her remains, cutting away everything that wasn't her and itself, everything that should have already been left behind.
In a swift, terrible motion, the nothingness retreated from her, taking with it a five-sided mass of squirming tentacles and eyes and eldritch meaning. She looked at this new, yet familiar, thing, and felt a massive weight lift off of her. She felt like she could think, like she could actually exist in this space, but she felt so slow, like waking up from a particularly convincing dream.
The New Pentagram reached its tentacles towards her, but it was halted by the nothingness. It squirmed and raged and screamed into the void, but the nothingness turned it's tentacles to stone.
Off in the distance, barely perceptible, something new appeared in the void. A massive white thing, in a vaguely oblong shape, was moving - no - growing in their direction. She was unmoved by its presence, still unable to shake off the slowness from the extraction, but the New Pentagram raged all the harder the closer it got to them.
As the Thing moved towards them, Sandra noticed that it wasn't uniformly white, but a raving mess of colors, all that she knew and some that shouldn't be possible. It bubbled and seethed, and seemed to grow with purpose towards the New Pentagram. The Pentagram all but gave up as the Thing got closer.
The Thing lashed out with a vibrant tentacle, wrapping it around the Pentagram, and pulled it in with astonishing speed. The Pentagram tried to scream in some impossible sound as it was yanked in, but was cut off before anything could come out by the Thing's existence absorbing it.
The Thing got closer and closer to her, and she tried to resist as the Pentagram did, but she was similarly paralyzed.
The instant it was about to touch her, Sandra woke up. She felt like she couldn't think again. But this was normal, right? This was the price of her process.
She slid her arm from out from under her blanket to take a look at the tattoo on the back of her hand. A green starfish, legs splayed out like a pentacle with a blank eye in the center, stared back at her. It acted like a sort of charm, or a meditative idol for her to focus on and think.
In that moment, she could have sworn the starfish was … talking to her? No, this didn't sound anything like the stars that it brought to her. This was something else, something that wormed its way between her thoughts and her perception the same way the void had separated her from her terror. Something that was very interested in the five-sided mind possessed by the starfish and dipped into by those it enthralled.
The voice had a simple message.
“Help us help you. Help us kill it.”


Credit to Perelka_L.

The sun rose, and Nadox wandered.
Where to, where from, in days of the Daevites it was a question of importance, a question begged by the still-aching wounds left by bloodied basalt, then begged by his duty to Ion, now begged by its own answers. Sometimes, Nadox wondered if it was still a question worth asking. When, why, what, how… all seemed a tad more important.
It mattered not. Libraries rose and fell with the seasons, ignorance and knowledge swelled in equal measure, patterns formed and pointed to the same mysterious ends. All of it, too slow beneath Nadox's feet, too fast for the pit of dread in his innards. Books only said so much, knowledge dripped into a canyon as mountains bled. But the landscape changed with time, and Nadox had time.
The sun set, and Nadox wandered.
Enlightenment, apotheosis, near-immortality… if such was the apex of being, an immortal drifter yet shackled to his own mutilated form, Nadox pitied the men around him. There were times when he longed to collapse into a ball and scream, stopping the world for the scant few seconds luck would allow him before existence continued, before the heel of an Archon inevitably crushed him against the dirt. To crawl into the darkest available corner and lie still for as long as he was allowed. Nadox was not proud of such times, nor their increasing frequency following Ion's disappearance.
Foraging, drinking, sleeping: such were liabilities, discarded on the path to apotheosis, base needs cruelly instituted by the gods on the lesser folk. Physically, Nadox walked without them; spiritually, some distant fragment of the Sufferer he once was looked jealously at the rare life around him. Did he miss the taste of meat, the chill of drink, the serenity of dreams? Or did he miss the hunt, the work one put into living from day to day?
Perhaps he missed his humanity. Perhaps he was still human. The All-Seeing saw all, every theory and every bit of evidence and every bit of contradiction. Extra veins pumping blood back into missing hearts, where arteries that fit perfectly wait patiently to nourish a thousand organs each.
Nadox's feet ached. He hadn't even been using them.

Telescopic eyes observed Nadox from afar, forming the unspoken bond between predator and prey. Nadox was not caught unaware; indeed, it was impossible for him to be anything but mindful. He heard the turning of gears, vented steam, the monotonous invocation of a broken god.
Nadox slowed his pace, steadily closing the gap between himself and his stalker without drawing suspicion. Closer, closer… the sound of a sword unsheathed, of accelerating cogwork and an engine burning with singular purpose. Curious, Nadox allowed his prospective assassin the first strike. The blade penetrated through his spine and bent his body to face the emerging stars - they would be rather beautiful that night.
“Die, Sarkite!" The Mekhanite's shout was tinny, echoed on itself. His transfiguration was incomplete. "By the infinite designs of Mekhane, you will be purged!”
Nadox's sewn-shut lips nearly curled into a smile. It had been at least two millennia since he last experienced impalement. From the moment Nadox sensed his stalker, it was clear he had mistaken him for a lesser shepherd of the flesh.
Nadox endeavored to elucidate his attacker on the severity of his error.
Unstable flesh poured from the wound, a writhing mass far larger than his taut skin appeared capable of containing. Bones fractured and reconfigured themselves in support of new limbs. Sinewy tendrils tore away his former husk like an insect post-metamorphosis. A hundred fists took shape, whose fingers unfurled like a lotus in bloom to reveal a hundred unblinking eyes. He rose into the air, alive, exalted in the truth of his ascendant form.
Most would flee in horror or fall to their knees in worship. Nadox had already foreseen that this man was different. Undeterred by the display, the brazen warrior pulled his blade from the undulating vessel and continued his fight.
An amused curiosity stayed a hundred hands of flesh, enabling those of bronze. The Mekhanite tore, tore, tore, slashing and piercing at Nadox's rippling flesh, only to reveal yet more flesh. The fruits of his harvest reintegrated with Nadox, far too quick for his adversary's blade, yet curiously he fought.
But the Mekhanite's mind drifted towards his deific armaments, and Nadox decided he was done observing.
The first strike sabotaged the second, throwing the Mekhanite across the dunes. Regaining bearings left him only enough time to dodge Nadox's hundred handed charge. Nadox's next strike, a lazy backhand, split against his opponent's parry, the Mekhanite's buy for time as his armament charged.
Now on the defensive, the Mekhanite jumped back, too close to charge yet too far to reach. He was stalling; Nadox would have known that even without the panic running off his mind.
The Mekhanite ran, and a rolling mass of flesh followed. It mattered not; Nadox was faster, no matter the Mekhanite's head start. Navigating the same dunes gave the far larger Nadox superior traction, superior navigation…
… and, as Nadox realized far too late, inferior turning.
The Mekhanite threw himself to the side, using his momentum to resume his retreat perpendicular to Nadox's trajectory. In the rush, Nadox misjudged his own movements, running a wide circle intersecting with the Mekhanite too early, an eccentricity that brought him further and further off the mark - but, regardless, the dizzying orbit had encircled his foe.
Nadox pulled in, spiraling steadily towards the Mekhanite. Regardless, the precision required left time for the Mekhanite to plan, to avoid his trample and buy more time.
As such, Nadox grounded himself to a sudden stop moments before he anticipated the Mekhanite's escape, rooted by a dozen hands… one of which came up to snatch his opponent from beneath the sands.
Again, Nadox had botched the timing; he had not traditionally needed to count in moments, he supposed. The Mekhanite slipped from his fingers, his base instincts searching for balance on his knuckles. He had a choice: drop, or remain still. It ultimately mattered little.
The Mekhanite jumped back, right into a swift clap.
Time froze for Nadox.
Nadox studied the Mekhanite's angle, the Mekhanite's form, the Mekhanite's trajectory, viscous in the desert air, flowing as pitch across a tongue. He studied the plates of his face, contorted in a desperate grimace. In frozen time, Nadox rolled the compound images through his mind, putting story to them, and only too late did he begin to study the armament pointed at his center of mass.
***
Pain.
Searing pain.
A pained wheeze escaped from Nadox's remaining maws, fruitlessly tearing at the stitches that bound them. Melted flesh poured down his body, still sizzling with heat. The force had driven him back, and with every minute movement more flesh sloughed off, staining the sand in reds and whites and browns.
Nadox's body screamed at itself. It screamed that Nadox was going to die; going to die over and over, over and over, over and over and over, that even though he knew he would survive, that he might as well have died.
Nadox retreated beneath the sands, and waited.
The cool sands beneath the surface gave time for him to think, time to plan. Whatever his body said was wrong; Nadox would live another day, but it was a thought that failed to ease his burnt and irritated flesh. Emasculation, suture, forced muteness, such aches Nadox had grown to ignore; deific fire was another matter entirely, and would remain one for however long Nadox took to regenerate.
The Mekhanite was a distraction. A waste of time, courtesy of the Archons. He had to die.
Tendrils of flesh dug into Nadox's surroundings, feeling for movements from above as the All-Seeing's eyes probed the minds of life above. The sudden shift in perspective sabotaged immediate comprehension, further hindered by freshly-burnt skin. A scorpion desperate not to be crushed. A bewildered serpent looking for food. A shrub, nearly dead. The Mekhanite. Myriad mounds of sand, each of which might or might not have been Nadox.
Sand shifted, and so did the Mekhanite. Animals burrowed and ran; Nadox felt such things above him, even as the pain obfuscated what stood above where. Clarity building…
Now.
Nadox emerged from the sand beneath the Mekhanite, swallowing him in a tangle of arms, tendrils, and sharpened bone. He payed no mind to the Mekhanite's resistance; such struggle was futile, wrapped in a cocoon of enveloping flesh.
The Mekhanite's brain was human, intact, a contrast to the cages and wires of beryl-bronze that connected it to his metallic form. A round peg of flesh in a bronzen square hole, one Nadox would be removing soon enough.
Nadox would not have been able to explain why he peeked into the Mekhanite's psyche.

Peering from behind the folds of the Mekhanite's brain was a man named Derdekeas.
Derdekeas was a Legate-Faithful to MEKHANE. He had been awake for three and a half fortnights prior, stalking Nadox from shadows cast behind the dunes, behind shrubs and rocks and trees. Curiosity paved the pathways of memory, a desire to meet a fellow wanderer. Betrayal, to find him an agent of the FLESH.
Derdekeas longed for a better, more rational world, under the guidance of MEKHANE. He longed for order, security… apotheosis? To end the reign of the FLESH, of Yaldabaoth and Scarlet Kings and that which made holes in the shapes of worms.

Nadox paused.

Derdekeas felt terrified, betrayed. In seeking companionship, he had confronted a Sarkite, a living legacy of the FLESH's corruption. What should have been a routine cleanse ended in its jaws, trapped in a cage of certain death. Not even the Holy Armaments of MEKHANE could save him.
Derdekeas was going to die.

Derdekeas did not want to die.

Nadox uncurled, spitting the Mekhanite Derdekeas out of his person.
***
Five times, the sun set. Five times, the sun rose.
Derdekeas was clever. He was strong, he was durable, he was deadly with blade and flame. He was tenacious and quick and fanatical, and yet most importantly, he was human.
Over the course of six days and five nights, Derdekeas engaged in a continuous assault against Nadox. Scorched glass, broken dunes, rivers of Nadox's blood, all marked the various assaults, engagements, one-man tactics and formations that outlined their protracted battle. Derdekeas fought with the ferocity of an army and the courage of a badger, a ferocity that waned with time while courage waxed.
On, most probably, the hour of noon on the sixth day, Derdekeas took the fourth step of a charge, missed his footing, and let himself fall supine over the sands.
The fire that had sustained his charge had diminished, retreating to his eyes. He could do naught but stare at Nadox. In his head, he lied to himself, told himself he wasn't afraid to die at the hands of a "worthy" servant of the FLESH.
Nadox simply stared back.
Slowly, steadily, he reformed. Bone snapped and viscera tore, compressing themselves into the impossibly small shape of a traveler. The shadow over the desert retracted to that of an average man.
Derdekeas laughed, and then he was unconscious.
***
Derdekeas awoke, three hours later, to Nadox.
Nadox admittedly hadn't been paying too much mind. His attention had been focused on several scrolls he bought at the last town over. The blade shoved through his head was almost quaint, really.
"You're awake." The flesh in Nadox's head contracted, gently spitting the blade out. "I trust you slept well."
Nadox blocked the next punch with his free hand. "Get out of my mind, Sarkite!" Derdekeas kicked at his side with halfhearted investment. It mattered not: his will to fight had outlived his will to kill, for the moment.
"Apologies, I can't." That scroll was almost useless. Nadox would want to sell it in the next town, once he finished taking notes. "I have no tongue."
Derdekeas merely snarled, kneeling down to look over Nadox's shoulder. "You speak my tongue, but your script… you are Daevite."
"By birth. Not by choice."
"You…" Derdekeas quickly stood up, catching himself as he nearly yelled in frustration. His next attempt to speak ended with a yell he failed to suppress. Derdekeas's next words came only after a few minutes more of pacing. "Enough! Who are you?"
Well, enough was enough. Nadox packed his research material back into its appropriate bag, and stood back up. "Klavigar Nadox, 'the All-Seeing'. If you'll excuse me," Nadox began to walk away.
Nadox had not gone but a single step before the Mekhanite attacked once more, with words rather than armaments.
"Klavigar! I am not done!" Derdekeas ran with the limited grace expected of desert-focused augmentation. If Nadox wanted, he could've reminded him just how useless that was in comparison to apotheosis. "Where are you going? To what ends?"
Nadox remained silent. Even without a tongue, what was there to say?
"Surely the All-Seeing Eye sees all. What's left to see?" Backwards, Derdekeas kept pace; Nadox's own pace enabled such mobile interrogation. "I've seen you. You revise nothing, write nothing, say nothing. You watch. But the Flesh is not simple: therefore, to what end?"
The sand beneath Nadox ran hot, a sensation growing stronger as he stopped. "Research. I am researching."
Even as Nadox stood still, Derdekeas moved, paced a circle around him like a hound, never touching sand for long enough to burn. Nadox felt his mind, easily as restless as his feet, racing between confusion and desperation, hidden behind a thin veneer of dogged curiosity, thinner than the plates of his skull. "Hah! Researching, says the All-Seeing Eye. Are you missing a piece of the puzzle?"
Perhaps it was folly to have spared Derdekeas. If so, it was sustained, a mistake days in the making, a flaw in his understanding of Ion's words. Momentary anger, otherwise?
The sand burnt.
"Alright. I think you know." Derdekeas stopped, miming a smug superiority he didn't really feel, before pacing again. "You have the piece. But, ah, you've fitted the puzzle incorrectly!"
Nadox continued on, only half out of duty, and half out of courtesy to Derdekeas's near-melting feet. "You've seen the signs. There's something beyond the flesh, salvation outside of it." The sand beneath Nadox was less granular than before. Some part of him wished for an outcrop, an escape from the heat. "But ah, machinery is a trapping of godliness. Capitulation to a higher power than yourself or Ion."
Nadox stopped.
"You think you've conquered Flesh. But," Derdekeas held up a finger. "Flesh has conquered you. You wallow in it, wrap yourself in its excess like an Archon, and-"
…
Nadox blinked, and found himself pointing a barb of sharpened bone at Derdekeas's throat.
Through Derdekeas's mind's eye, Nadox saw instead what appeared to him to be a Daevite priestess, wielding a blade of crimson-stained basalt.
Nadox's armament fell to the side, and Nadox walked as fast as he could.
***
Nadox needed not heat, nor rest, nor much of anything gained by curling up against a fire under a rare outcropping of stone. And yet, here he was.
The heat would not last; an ironic development, starkly illuminated by the cold of the desert. Too little a shrub in sight to fuel the flames, and Nadox was not certain he'd be willing to offer up fat to such a temporary and superfluous cause. Nadox was going to live, whether everything else did or didn't.
He closed his eyes.

"… hello again."
Nadox's physical eyes remained closed.
For a scant eternity, only Derdekeas's soft clicking broke the thin silence of night wind and crackling fire. Nadox remained where he was, curled like a fetus against the fire.
"… I apologize. I should not have threatened you."
Derdekeas's mind raced, even as Nadox restrained himself from looking too far inside, lest he rediscover the memory. "I… suppose I…" Over the wind but under the fire, Nadox could hear the soft ruffling of Derdekeas's travel cloak as he sat. "I'm sorry. I… there was no need to antagonize you. As I did."
"You… don't need to apologize, Legate." There was a genuine sorrow in the back of Derdekeas's mind, a genuine atom of intoxicatingly rare compassion, hidden among the confusion. "You didn't know."
"I… I suppose I don't."
The two sat very still, until daybreak swept the fire's last embers to the winds.

For the next few days, Derdekeas was silent, his mind withdrawn. Nadox tried not to pry, but it was as asking one not to stare at the moon as they watched the skies. Derdekeas's thoughts were a poisoned oasis in a desert of nothing.
Nadox walked, and Derdekeas trailed behind. His faceplate, near expressionless in its make, barely cast gaze high enough to follow the movements of Nadox's robes. Derdekeas made little noise, but for the listless grinding of moving parts. Nadox had spared him, and he walked as a dead man regardless.
… the roads. Nadox had somehow lost track of them.
Several more days of wandering. Derdekeas said little; affirmations and negations to questions of need, half-hearted advice on which horizon to walk, soft-spoken Mekhanite prayers that gradually lost meaning. He barely kept pace, hardly kept track…
When the two finally arrived at the next town, Nadox had expected Derdekeas to look happier, had expected a change of scenery begetting a change in attitude. And yet, Derdekeas simply looked listlessly at the ground, now paved and heavy-trodden, a melancholy passenger to Nadox's odyssey.
***
The same passage. Nadox had just read the same passage.
The small building that passed for this town's library was empty, save for Nadox and Derdekeas. Its denizens took their business outside the walls, quietly or otherwise insulated from Nadox's study. Derdekeas sat in a far corner, moving little and speaking less. Ultimately, it left Nadox with the perfect environment for study, an opportunity that, try as he might, Nadox ultimately squandered on the same passage.
Derdekeas. He had changed something, a misplaced step in the process of research. Or was it the dynamic as a whole?
Nadox closed his eyes.
He thought of Ion. His merciful gaze, his soft-spoken confessions and his rhetoric of torn flesh and rebirth in viscera. Of the half-dead wasteland where they last spoke. Nadox thought of his perfect, beautiful form, and of the hideous nascent Archon that gestated within. Of how his Klavigar, lost without the guidance of the perfect surgeon, had scattered to the wind. Of the final question left behind.
His mind wandered to his travels, of the gradual decay of his surroundings. Of hungry cicadas, screaming clouds of violet vibrations, and a myriad of their vicious peers.
He thought of what he saw in the folds of Derdekeas's psyche. The passion. The need for change. The common enemy.
…
"Derdekeas."
Nadox was answered with the tinny grind of metal.
"Care to join me?"
"I…" Derdekeas stood, already a significant improvement in his situation. "What do you mean?"
"In research." There was no easy way to covertly vomit the collection of documents Nadox kept in his person, at least in company. Still, Derdekeas had seen more than his share of Nadox's insides, leaving comparatively little shock to be had.
Derdekeas approached with caution, a caution Nadox thought inappropriate given the past several weeks, but nonetheless a caution. At some invisible precipice between himself and the table, Derdekeas stopped.
The air was still, the wind calm.

"… you'll forgive me for my caution."

Dying sunlight reflected off the fire in Derdekeas's eyes.
"I already do."
The dusk passed with stories of the old gods, and those who lived beneath them.

The sun rose, and Derdekeas followed Nadox.
"… I recognize that."
Nadox continued his craft, though his mind's eye looked up. "A simple hinged joint."
Derdekeas's face had been replaced with bronze, without the necessary muscles to squint. Even so, Nadox could feel the muscle memory of the flesh that once was attempting to do just that. "Right, but… the structure. As a whole, I recognize the structure, how you've built the arm. My own innards appear nearly identical."
A pause. Nadox examined his own handiwork, comparing it with the internal anatomy of Derdekeas.
Nadox continued.
…
Derdekeas crouched to face their patient. "How do you feel?"
The little shepherd boy felt many things, or at least, Nadox felt many things through the shepherd boy's thoughts. Bewilderment, at his brand new arm. Fear, that either of them may demand an unspoken price that could not be paid. Gratefulness, despite the circumstances. All bled into apprehension, what to do now that his limbs were whole again.
As his mind turned to the thought of repayment, Nadox turned and walked away.
The sun set, and Derdekeas walked with Nadox.
The book, predictably, was written in a different tongue to the last library, days away. Not that it mattered; language was a barrier Ion had thrust Nadox over long ago. From the thoughts bubbling on the surface of his companion's mind, Derdekeas was not quite so fortunate.
Nadox took note of the signs, the histories, the pieces of possible solutions, compiling every scrap into a written record, a library in miniature, a personal schema against the Archons. That it was in Derdekeas's tongue was convenience; that was what Nadox told himself, even as the muscles of his digits struggled to adapt to the new alphabet.
As Nadox researched, recorded, reviewed, Derdekeas read, read, read, tried to read. There was a limit to his comprehension, a language barrier he could not cross. Frustration radiated from his mind, tainted with… disappointment.
Nadox closed his eyes; all of them, but the ones needed for the task at hand.
Minutes passed. Hours.
He had been reading a scroll on ancient rites, dedications to crowned cicadas and holes in the shapes of worms, when Derdekeas collapsed onto the seat beside him. "Nothing! I learned nothing. I cannot read this script."
"I'm sorry."
"Right. Right." Derdekeas simply stared at the table upon which Nadox read. "… it's been several fortnights. An hour of rest?"
Dawn would be soon, if Nadox had to guess. Best now. "Do what you need."
Derdekeas leaned against Nadox, and let himself dream. His chassis was warm.
The sun rose. Nadox and Derdekeas walked.
"Thank you again, so much, for your kindness." The fat man before them, who had plead with Derdekeas to help him fix his cart, wanted to kill both of them. Ill intent boiled off his head like a ruptured cyst. He intended to do so in service to the Scarlet King. Nadox found it all very quaint.
He would fail, of course. His poison would constrict the heart, of which Nadox had several and Derdekeas one of bronze. Once that failed, he planned to eviscerate them with novice magicks and parlor tricks. The farce would most probably end when Nadox would swiftly decapitate him with a keratin blade, after which he would consume his flesh and be on his way. That was if Nadox played along; he had far more important business to attend to, compared to humoring the follower of a fellow deific eunuch.
"There's must be something, anything, I could do to repay you." Nadox was surprised, at least. Worship of the Scarlet King was traditionally restricted to the Daevites; its spread this far south suggested dreadful things, especially in absence of the coastline. The work of Archons?
Bone merged and tore beneath Nadox's robes. Nadox silently prayed to Ion, and-
"It was nothing." Derdekeas had already finished repairs. "You owe us nothing. Farewell, and good travels."
Derdekeas turned to walk away, and Nadox couldn't help but follow.
…
"Is he still following us?"
The fat man, Derdekeas meant. His ill-intent was conspicuous enough against the backdrop of Derdekeas's warmth through the void of the wilderness; Nadox had not gotten around to killing him, yet. Later, perhaps.
Later, perhaps.
Derdekeas would stop as dusk broke, out of misplaced courtesy. It mattered not; the fat man lacked the capacity to kill either of them.
His approach was cautious; Nadox knew he knew that they knew of him, knew and could guess at his intent. The man supposed, and Nadox and Derdekeas knew, that such an attempt would be futile. Ultimately, however, Nadox did not know why the man continued his approach.
Heat and exhaustion looked to be wearing on him with each step, but the man continued regardless. His dedication was impressive, nearly compensating for his inabilities. Nearly. But Nadox and Derdekeas had time, while the man's mortality had been slowly robbing him of such from the day he was born.
Time ran out a dozen paces from Nadox and Derdekeas, and the man collapsed. He would die soon. The two of them would do well to leave him to his fate.
Nadox spotted Derdekeas reaching for his waterskin.
The sun rose, and Nadox, Derdekeas, and Fang walked.
As Nadox meted out the coins necessary for provisions, his mind began to wander. It did that these days.
The two, now three, were losing pace. Looking back on his travels, Derdekeas had eventually signaled a suspicious uptick in progress; even so, the addition of a third appeared to have spoiled that. How much so, Nadox was unsure. Measures of abstract were rarely quantifiable, especially when Nadox himself seemed to be lacking the full context of the work ahead.
The days… the days were not growing shorter, Nadox realized. He had just been forced to pay more attention to them. Derdekeas had a clock that ran in months; Fang, hours. If the toll of time was to be decried, it laid firmly on the lodestone of Fang. The easiest solution would be to kill him, and continue without him. That, somehow, was also the hardest.
With renewed attention to the sand through the sieve came the realization of the grains falling around his fingers. Days shone brighter. Sand ran hotter. The pleasant nausea in Nadox's stomach, a nausea he hadn't quite noticed until late, roiled fiercer yet. Intensities he hadn't felt since Ion, since Nadox had fought with someone at his side, since he had done more than just walking, reading, writing. Reunion with the complex depths of being.
When Nadox moved, he left footprints, displaced grains, a slithering track. Nadox left an imprint. Had he always left one? He must have. He must.
Nadox thought back to Derdekeas. He found that his thoughts did not examine, compare, attempt to decrypt. Nadox merely thought of him, and felt fortunate. Daevite twine tore at the edges of the holes it threaded through; it could not stop the curl of his lips.
With the transaction concluded, Nadox walked back to his friend and follower.
The sun rose, and Nadox, Derdekeas, and Fang walked.
When the sun next rose, Nadox, Derdekeas, Fang, and Jungsai walked.
One day, the sun rose to Nadox, Derdekeas, and their fellow travelers.
Later, the sun rose to Nadox, Derdekeas, and their followers.
Soon, friends.
Acolytes.
Family.

The sun set.
Nadox sat alone.
Around him, followers set up their tents, counted their provisions, prepared for the coming night. A select few stayed awake, studied, theorized. Võlutaar mingled with Mekhanite, mingled with insomniac and spirit and those passionate enough to sacrifice sleep for progress. Quietly, the world continued to turn for another night.
Derdekeas sat across from him, transcribing lessons, schematics, all he had gleaned over the day. Connections Nadox had overlooked, conclusions divergent of the arguments Nadox had drawn, pieces of the puzzle, to synthesize with what was already written.
For the first time in centuries, Nadox allowed himself rest.