So it was just all three now, me and the Moeller twins. Everyone left after the fiasco that was our last play. Ok, it was shit. Still. Money was running low, same for the dope. The room's a mess, seen too many parties and too little cleaning. I'm drinking one of our last beers with Ulrike, Einstürzende Neubauten blaring from the boombox does nothing to break the gloom.
“Sometimes you make mistakes”, she says as always, in her perennial monotone, “sometimes mistakes make you.”
Just another night with no future.
That's when Ute comes skipping home with another of her hare-brained schemes.
“Puppet show, work for three, paying well."
"Where did you even hear about that?"
"Not telling, just sign up."
"Puppets, seriously?"
"You want that next hit or not?"
"Fuck you."
"You know you want to…”
That's when I cave in. They both fucking know the best way to get me to agree to anything is bringing up their lesbian-threesome-cum-incest bullshit again, i'm not that kind of girl. Anything to make them shut up about that. Assholes, both of them, but likeable assholes. And we do need the money. Just not like that. Puppets, shit, I hate kids.
So we show up there the next evening. Surprisingly, the gig's legit. At least the place is. Nicer than I expected too, well, depends on whose idea of nice, I guess, old industrial hangar, painted bits of machinery lying around. Why the hell is everything painted pink, though…
Bleachers outside, not kids sized, great. Not what I expected. Still feels strange that I've never heard of that place before.
So, I'm just sitting there in the car, waiting, wondering what's behind those doors. Ute's just fooling around with her sister as usual, pointless to pry for more from her anyway. Not as if waiting for nothing wasn't my standard mode. The night's cold, a cloudy sky makes it dark as soot.
I can't really remember last time I saw the light of day.
The woman in charge finally shows up with her troupe. Ok, so from her clothes, I can totally put a face on all that pink. She'd stand out anywhere but the others are so bland I'll probably never match a name to their face. Actually, they might as well be faceless, I don't give a flying fuck. Pink is twitchy but seems friendly, or the other way around. In a hurry too. Show's on Saturday, can't even remember which day of the week is now. At last, she unlocks that door.
Yeah, puppets, carnival giants actually, papier maché and plaster, kind of ugly and crude but nothing I haven't seen before. Costumes, knick-knacks and tryhard sculptures against the walls. A lot of that is obviously just gathering dust. But the abomination in the middle makes me want to back out of that deal. Motherfucking headless, three metres tall, neon pink pony. On rusty wheels.
Ute's giggling, Ulrike's yawning. I'm just sweating. I mean, our shows never were tasty but that takes the cake. No way this is fucking happening. I totally want out but there's no backing out now, is there?
The pink lady doesn't seem to care for introductions, I guess Ute took care of that, I'd rather not know what she said. Not one for small talk either.
“The twins will push the float. You're short and thin, you'll fit in the head.”
She points at a broken thing hanging from the wall. A skeletal horse head, way too large to be real, polished white wood?, with a long fuchsia mane, cracked deer antlers and tinfoil earmuffs, a pink megaphone for a mouth, rawhide bellows for a neck. It's just a bit of shame, nobody will see my face at least. That thing literally stinks like rotting meat, though.
So there isn't anything more to it for us, the twins roll that thing towards the bleachers, I repeat the lines she feeds me through HF. The troupe silently dances around the pony, circling it slowly with a perfectly ridiculous solemnity which makes the whole thing disquieting.
Going back to the squat, we stop at a dive to get our feed of music, alcohol, people and drugs. Place is crappy but it's like a second home. Or a second not-a-real-home. Anyway, feels like an oasis after going through that desiccated pantomime. Ulrike's busy kissing her sister, but her eyes don't leave me. Will they ever stop? We hit the sacks right before dawn. Just hoping for a bit of nightmare free sleep, my life's enough in that department.
Back to rehearsing. I don't even know what's there to rehearse. Everything is so basic and Pink keeps feeding me her lines so it's not like I might forget them. Though, I'm not even sure they're the same as yesterday, or the day before. They feel new, but I can't remember what they'd replace. As if they actively resisted remembrance.
Doesn't matter. I just fucking wish it stopped raining. Two days to go and we're out of this gig. Back at our pad, the cot feels cold and I have a splitting headache. I hope I didn't catch anything nasty from staying inside that thing. It sure doesn't feel or smell like it's seen regular cleanings.
So this is the day. Not a hint of stage fright. No excitement either. Pink is the same terse. The dancers move like clockwork around the hangar. No audience yet when we arrived, I wonder who's going to pay for that. Or even watch for free. At this point, I don't even mind playing for the bleachers as long as I get paid.
Silence.
Pink strikes her trois coups. The door rumbles open. I can't see anything below but I hear Ute's muffled laugh. I can hardly see either through the floodlights. There is an audience, though. Masked, grey, stuffy silhouettes, hints of gleaming jewelry. Whispers and polite laughs.
The twins push the monster, always short of reaching the slowly moving yellow spotlight. The puppets circle us like apathetic vultures, dancing to the slow, slow whine of the rusty wheels. The lines keep coming, I am but a mouthpiece. The audience shows no reaction to anything but I don't care. This is so sluggish it's excruciating. I can hear Ute distorting them into something even more ridiculous, if anything can be more ludicrous than that mechanical masquerade. Unprofessional but not unexpected from her. She keeps getting louder. And lewder.
Oh, fuck that, at this point, I'm sure Pink's furious and we're not getting paid anyway. I'll just repeat whatever Ute's drug-addled brain comes up with next.
“Here we come in solemn union,” Pink whispers through the pony's speaker.
“The Moeller twins are the best kissers this side of Berlin,” Ute and I answer. No reaction from the audience.
“Held together by the ties that bind."
"When I'm done with this, I'm taking the knot.”
We're almost done, the spotlight has stopped, a few seconds more, we'll enter it, the dancers will converge to the float and we're heading home.
“We belong to you, now and always."
"My muff belongs to Ute Moeller!”
Ulrike's not letting the last word escape her,
“Let us forever be made and unmade."
"Sometimes you make mistakes, sometimes mistakes make you.”
Berlin's cool night sky for curtain. The audience stops whispering, there's a low, brown buzz getting louder in the air. Then silence punches me in the gut. Pangs of red. Then nothingness. All is silence. The audience is gone. So are the dancers. Pink helps me get out of her contraption and quietly takes my hand. She leads me back to the hangar and I'm too dazed to react. The twins follow, uncharacteristically silent.
The hangar feels gloomier tonight, like something's missing. Actually, the fluorescent tubes aren't buzzing anymore, so maybe it's just that. Pink still won't let go of my hand. She shows me to her digs under the rafters, I just follow, I don't feel in charge of anything anymore… No chairs, no bed either. Rugs, pillows, an eye-wrenching pink nest, the air's heavy with the musty smell of dried roses…
I prop myself in a corner, she puts on a record on a gramophone but no music plays. She shows me a comic she's been reading, mythological stuff, but unfamiliar, a decaying city with a faceless, almighty ruler, not truly malevolent but preoccupied about keeping the citizens from leaving the walls above all else. I point to her how absurd the predicament of his worshippers is, she just shrugs.
She's pushing closer, spooning me. I'm beginning to feel truly uncomfortable… I bluster apologies and show myself out. The hangar's empty. No trace of the twins. How long did I stay up there? And where did they run? I have the motherfucking keys. Probably shagging somewhere outside.
Car's still there. I take a look round the bushes, under the bleachers. No one. Everything's deathly silent. Might as well check the road. There's a black van parked, wasn't there earlier. Door swings open. Some guy in black rolls out and lines me up with a rifle.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Wait. I've seen this guy before.
Where? Can't place that face for a second.
I know. In a car's vanity mirror. Memories flood. I can hear the sound of our performance. Wait, I'm that guy? I'm going insane, that bloody fucking doesn't make any sense. I can hear him thinking. Something about stopping senseless slaughter, orders or not. He's pissed at the woman sitted next to him, looks like a mean, cold, old bitch, doesn't move a finger, she's the spider to him. That's bullshit, I'm dreaming all this, it's im-fucking-possible.
A thump and a sharp pain bring me back. I turn away and start running. There's a dart sticking from my side. I rip it out and stumble towards the hangar.
I hear him calling from ahead of me. “Lock her up, I'm getting the others.”
I hear another door opening, footsteps behind me. I'm feeling woozy. I turn back, it's that woman. No way she's fucking real. I want to wake up. There's a hole in the concrete fence ahead. Pretty sure that wasn't there before. I slip through and fly towards the hangar. Literally. When the fuck did I learn how to fly? No time to think, can't think straight anyway.
Footsteps have stopped, I look back, no hole. Gunfire. Everything's out of focus. I make a sharp turn and head towards the door. He's leaning over the twins. They can't be dead. They just can't be dead. I can't feel my body. The light is hurting my eyes. Fade to grey.
I finally wake up from that nightmare. Except, this isn't the squat. Way too clean. Dull metal walls. I'd try to get up but I'm strapped to the bed. Surgical light blinding me. Is this a hospital? Noone's here to answer. I scream. And wait. And scream. I'm dazed and hungry. The door finally opens. I didn't expect to see that face again, or rather I didn't want to… Except he's wearing orange, not black.
Questions bustle and clash through my head but only one comes out.
“Are they alive?"
"I'm afraid not. I can't tell you more and you probably wouldn't understand. Maybe it was a mistake. Do you know what she told me? - Sometimes you make mistakes, sometimes mistakes make you. - It feels like a lifetime ago. Only nine months. Before you ask, you won't see what you birthed. It's locked up in a box with two like it. Permanently, I think. It's neutralised, like everything else, anyway. I'm not sure why you lived. The other two died before term. You're the last instance alive. The spider wants to close that file and move on. You're to be decommissioned, I came to pick you up.”
I don't dig half of that. Decommissioned? What the fuck?
The guy in black, orange, whatever, is now holding a pistol. He looks as surprised as I am.
“I'm not supposed to have one of those. Maybe it's for the best.”
He unties me, says he's sorry for everything, tells me not to look. There's heavy, heavy silence. I can't take my eyes off that gun. He lifts it, shoves the barrel down his mouth, shoots, collapses.
I can't even scream anymore. I'm just standing there. The deafening tritone of a siren shakes me up. Can't wait to see who'll respond to that alarm. I fly out of the room, into an immense hallway lined with doors just like the one I exited. I hear shouts down the hall. The spider is the next thing I see. She grabs me, asks me where I think I'm going, tells me I wasted two years of her life by bearing a perfectly non-anomalous plastic toy. Pink. With a fuchsia mane. She mumbles something about a catheter, says that I'm to be terminated and to wait here for the guards. She never seems to stop, I can't take it anymore. I put my hands around her neck. She vanishes in a puff of pink glitter.
The walls around me are shaking, crumbling. I fly as fast as I can, the hallway never seems to end. The doors disgorge their content in a cacophonic pandemonium. I finally reach a hub of sorts. Exit's blocked by a blast door. I glide to the roof and punch through it. There's no other side, only nothingness, stars shimmering in the darkness as far as the eye can see. I fly towards the door and through it.
I don't know how I got back to the squat. The streets are eerily empty and silent. Nothing of this can be real. I don't know when I fell asleep and started dreaming. I'll climb the stairs, and I'll have a beer with the twins. But there's no squat. The rooms are bare and decaying, dust and rubble. Ulrike's graffiti are gone. So is the boombox, blasted silence. Not a trace of any of us. I can't believe that I couldn't save them, that they'll never be here when me again. Or maybe, maybe they never were in the first place and none of this is real. None of us ever were. All that is is a hole burnt through a mourner's veil and there's no living flesh to be seen through that hole. Outside, the void has too many stars and I am but one of them.
All is silence.


October 19th
Halloween was almost upon the Midwestern United States. With it came the changing of leaves, the propping up of foam skeletons, the serving of pies of various flavors, and, in the small town of Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin…
"Scarecrows," Christopher Hastings exclaimed, exasperated. "Scarecrows! Popping up all over town! Twenty last night, another twenty the night before!" He groaned this as he hefted around a heavy-looking work bag.
He walked past a line of scarecrows that were in the process of being cataloged by members of Sigma-10. "Why Scarecrows? Why?!"
"Y'got me," Tristan Bailey shrugged, sipping at a paper cup of cocoa. This was nowhere near his department, but Hastings had asked him to tag along; the Bailey triplet couldn't help but wonder if it was just for the sake of keeping Hastings sane. This was technically the Department of Botany's wheelhouse, but only by a slim margin. "What, is this a sign of the apocalypse or somethin'?"
"It very well might be!" Dr. Hastings took out a notepad filled with sketches and scribbles of the scarecrows. "Look, the positions of the scarecrows throughout town seem to be forming the outline of a pentagram— an inverted five-pointed star. I tried talking to Dr. Sinclair, but she didn't believe me."
Tristan rubbed his forehead. "Chris, no offense, but every time something like this happens, you get riled up. You did it for the Christmas tree, you did it for the Thanksgivukkah turkey golems, you're doing it now."
"And I was right those first two times," Hastings frowned, crossing his arms. "It's like you all have very selective amnesia."
"I'm just saying, it might be a bit of Nexus Weirdness, nothing beyond that." He looked over the notepad. "Huh. The pattern is freaky, but I don't think it's a pentagram."
"What, then?" Chris asked.
"You're holding it at a weird angle." He snatched the notepad away from Hastings and rotated it a few times until he got a proper angle. "You're cherry-picking data points, Hastings. Probably why you're not a physicist."
"What is it, then?" Chris scowled.
"Hold on, let's see… these are both distinct segments… forming triangles… this is some kind of weird lightning-bolt thing— oh god." Tristan sighed. "Goddammit." He turned the notepad towards Chris.
The scarecrows were appearing in the shape of a Jack-O-Lantern's grinning visage.

The two of them went further into town, and came to a pause as they saw a scarecrow jutting horizontally out of the side of what was once the Vegan Buffet, now closed down due to "health and safety reasons"; serving human meat as vegan was certainly a health violation.
Chris whistled up at it. "Well, that's something new."
"How are ya gonna get that down?" Tristan asked. "It's a bit high for a ladder."
"Fire department's probably going to take care of it," Chris frowned. "Still, this supports Dr. Partridge's theory that these are some kind of plant; it could easily be a vine organism, taking root between gaps in the mortar."
"Maybe," Tristan said, looking up at it. "Hey, um. Any idea if Weiss is okay?"
"Sigma-10 lost an entire six-man squad on her call. Between that and what happened back in March…" Chris shook his head. "Weiss is a tough old bird, but I think everyone has their limits."
"Mmm," Tristan rubbed his face. "Claire's technically next in line for the job."
"So, you'll move from schlupping the head of Multi-U to the director of a site. Bit of a downgrade," Chris snarked.
Tristan smacked the back of his head. "Not funny."
"Sorry," Chris laughed and rubbed his crown. "Still, seriously. Everyone knows about it. Just fill out the goddamn relationship declaration forms."
"We do fill it out. We keep filling it out, and every time we fill it out, it mysteriously goes 'missing'." Tristan shook his head and tugged at his hair. "I think that someone in administration has it out for me. Probably still pissed about what Trevor did."
"That was… literally almost half a decade ago." Chris twisted his lip. "Who'd have it out for your family after that long?"
"Probably the people researching the Keter that Trev threw into a pocket universe. He should be an O5, not at a desk job." Tristan shook his head, and craned his neck up at the scarecrow. "Why am I here again?"
"Because I think that these things are popping up from extra-dimensional space." Chris walked further with Tristan. "One of them popped up at Rudy's, in the storeroom. It's isolated, so that's the one we're going to examine."
"Right, easy way to determine that. I have a way to do that on me. You just gotta look at it the right way."
They walked further down the road, reaching Rudy's Cafe, the best coffee shop in all of Sloth's Pit. Starbucks couldn't hold a candle to its hot brews, which were always bittersweet and brewed with coffee ground every twenty minutes. In the latter half of the year, the hot chocolate served warmed the hearts of all who frequented it, especially if one ordered it with a shot of bourbon mixed in.
Now, the place was vacant, due to the anomaly in the store room. All that was around it was a Police barricade, and in the store room, the scarecrow. Straw hat, straw skin, cotton clothes.
Hastings stood back while Tristan took out a camera and adjusted the lens. "You, uh, hear that Pike's finally getting hitched?"
"No foolin'?" Tristan asked, aiming his viewfinder at the scarecrow. "Her and Mattings? When's the wedding?"
"February 14th next year. Mattings doesn't want to forget the anniversary." Chris cracked his neck. "So, what's the method of detecting extradimensional activity?"
"Filter on this lens picks up exotic particles associated with objects crossing entropic barriers— anything that violates conservation of mass lights up like a Christmas tree." He handed the camera to Hastings and held his hand out in front of the lens; the digital display showed Tristan's entire hand looking like a giant, glowing yellow mass. "That includes people who work in Multi-U."
"Cool." Chris grinned, which faded quickly when he looked at the scarecrow through the display. The scarecrow had some luminescence on it, but nothing to the degree of Bailey. "Huh. What's that mean?"
"It's got some of the particles on it. Probably has some extradimensional weirdness." Tristan tapped his finger to his lips. "I'm gonna touch it."
"Don't," Chris said, pulling out a pair of gloves. "Put these on first, at least." He produced a pair of gas masks. "These too."
"…the hell were you keeping these?" Tristan asked, slipping on the gloves.
"I don't carry this bag around for fashion purposes," Chris hefted his shoulder bag, putting on his gas mask. "You never know what you're gonna run into."
"Hopefully this is enough protection." Tristan stepped forward, hand outstretched, frowning beneath his mask. "…Chris?"
"Yeah?"
Tristan pulled his hand back. "Who called in this thing here? Was it Rudy?"
"It was Cait, his daughter. She works morning shift." He pulled out a sample bag and a pair of tweezers. "Why?"
Tristan stepped back. "Has… anyone seen Rudy today?"
"I see where you're going with this," Chris stepped forward, swallowing and extending his tweezers, "And I hope you're wrong."
"So do I." Tristan made for the door. "If something happens… bolt."
"Right." Chris's hand outstretched towards the scarecrow, shaking, a dry gasp filling his mouth. He plucked one of the straws from its right arm.
Its entire hand fell off, revealing a human arm beneath the straw, which hung limp, hitting the side of the scarecrow's body with a wet, sickening slap sound. Chris bolted, sample in hand, along with Tristan. Before they cleared the door, the Bailey sibling caught a glimpse of the unmistakable ring on the finger: a Harvard class of '76 golden ring, one that was worn by Rudolf Dyer, owner of Rudy's Cafe.

Three hours later, Christopher Hastings sat across a table in one of Site-87's break rooms, opposite of Dr. Partridge and Tristan Bailey. Hastings had his head in his hands, and was wiping tears off his face from the news he had received. "Are you sure, Doctor?" He asked Doctor Partridge.
"Yes. All of them contained at least one cadaver." His voice was soft and grim. "Some had parts. Thankfully this…" he swallowed. "Is no longer a matter for either of our departments. Forensics and investigative agents are taking this over now, as are occult studies and… god." He rubbed his face.
"All of them?" Tristan asked. He was drained from what he had just heard. "Even— even the one hanging from the side of the old vegan place?" Tristan asked.
"That was Ted Mason, former owner of the buffet, who should be serving a goddamn life sentence in Columbia Correctional in Portage." Dr. Partridge sighed and took a drink from a flask on his belt. "Cover-ops is working their ass off on that matter. Saying he fell in his cell and broke his neck."
"Forty deaths…" Chris chewed his lip. "And might be more coming. How is the town not panicking?"
"They're not panicking because they're evacuating." Dr. Partridge stood. "As of an hour ago, Dr. Weiss gave an evacuation order to all non-essential civilians."
"Like that'll help!" Chris snapped. "Mason got snatched from a prison 300 miles away to have his corpse pinned on the side of his fucked-up vegan place!"
"Hastings, please. Calm down." Dr. Partridge sighed. "I'm just as shaken up about this as you are. This is the most deaths the town has had since—"
"1976," the three of them spoke simultaneously.
"You don't think…" Tristan began.
"They're looking into it." Dr. Partridge stood. "We're going to be having a vigil in front of the site for everyone in town that…"
"I'll be there," Chris assured him. "I just… need some time."
"We all do." Dr. Partridge stood and exited the room, rubbing his face. "Goddammit."
"Doc?" Chris asked.
"I transferred here because this place had one of— one of the lowest goddamn mortality rates among US Foundation sites. In 2009, I saw half a task force feed themselves to a pitcher plant, and then I studied how long it took them to be digested. I… needed a break after that." He looked up at the ceiling.
Tristan Bailey wished them a good night, and walked out of the room. On the way out, he took his rage out on a grinning plastic Jack-O-Lantern that had been pinned on the wall, tearing it down and letting out a curse.
Partridge's eyes widened, an idea entering his head. "Hastings? Meet me tonight. Bring as many people from the department as you can. I've… had an idea of what's going on. And I don't like it."
"Yes, sir," Chris nodded, walking around him out of the room. He gave the pumpkin a dejected kick.
Dr. Keith Partridge took a long swig of his flask, before heading out the room after them. The light wouldn't go on in the breakroom for the rest of the week.

«Prologue | Black Autumn Hub | Chapter 2 »


Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin Anomalous Incidents Records
911 Call made on 18/10/2017 from the Pyramid Inn, Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin to Douglas County Dispatch
Begin Transcript
Dispatch: Douglas County 911, do you require police, fire or ambulance?
POI: I-I-I don't know.
Dispatch: What's happening, madam?
[Several seconds of shaky breathing]
Dispatch: Hello?
POI: I'm… I'm at the Pyramid Inn on Talon Street, by the edge of town in Sloth's Pit? I can't get out of my room.
Dispatch: Are you trapped in your room, ma'am? Is someone keeping you there?
POI: No, I… every time I go out of my room and open a door— any door, the elevator, the door to the stairs, it just… I end up back in my room, and I don't know how!
Dispatch: Ma'am, I'm going to be transferring your call now. There are people trained for this situation specifically.
POI: Okay.
[Several seconds of silence, with shaky breathing, as the phone call transfers. Analysis of the call indicates that there is a slight sloshing sound in the background, as if water is being splashed in a bathtub or sink.]
Director Nina Weiss: Director Weiss's Office, to whom am I speaking?
POI: Director? [Pauses] The police said that I was going to be transferred to someone wh-who could help me. I'm at the Pyramid Inn on Talon Avenue, and I can't leave my room.
Director Weiss: [inhaling sharply] Okay. What's your name?
POI: Martha. My name's Martha. I'm in… room thirteen, on the third floor, and every time I leave m-m-my room, [incoherent speech] back to it! I can't get in the elevator, I can't get into any other room, every time I open any door, I end up in my room! [soft sobbing]
Director Weiss: Room thirteen? [Pauses] Are you positive?
POI: Y-yes, Ma'am, miss Weiss.
Director Weiss: There is no room thirteen on any floor of the Pyramid.
POI: What? Oh god.
Director Weiss: We've been having trouble there a while now. I'm afraid you may have been caught up in something strange, Martha. [sounds of footsteps; likely Director Weiss pacing] Don't panic. Has anything in your room changed on your returns to it?
POI: Uh, um. The TV's been on a few times, it's… it's been playing speeches by Reagan.
Director Weiss: What kind of speeches?
POI: Uh, I don't know. It was… I think it was his inauguration? Don't know why it'd play that. I tried changing the channels, and all of them are on programs from the 1980s. What the hell, what the hell, what the hell…
Director Weiss: Okay, so it's not Cut Up While Talking. Anything else?
POI: I, uh, um. Shit, I think that there's a… my luggage has moved. It was on my bed, I was packing up, and then it was on the floor after I came back.
Director Weiss: Is everything in your luggage, Martha?
POI: Uh… I'll check.
[A soft tap is heard as the phone is put down on a surface, followed by the sound of clothing being rummaged through. Several seconds later, a loud scream is heard on the line, and the phone is knocked to the floor, where it is picked up by the POI, who is incoherent for several seconds]
Director Weiss: Martha? What's wrong, what happened?
POI: [sobbing loudly] HOLY SHIT HOLY FUCKING SHIT WHAT THE FUCK?!
Director Weiss: Please, calm down. I-I need you to tell me what happened.
POI: Th-th-there's a goddamn hand in my luggage! I looked through it, and it reached out and g-grabbed me! Oh god, what the fuck. [sobbing] I-I have burn marks on my arm! It burned me! It grabbed my arm and burned me!
Director Weiss: Martha, I'm going to need you to stay calm. I'm going to go off the phone for a little bit. A team will arrive at your location soon, all right?
POI: …all right. Thank you, Nina.
[Director Weiss places their receiver down, and opens a communication channel with the commander of MTF-Sigma-10]
Director Weiss: Sigma-10, we need a squad scrambled at the Pyramid Inn, we have a Code Vorhees, repeat, Code Vorhees. Civilian is trapped inside a triskaidekic anomaly on the third floor, spectral activity highly possible.
S10 Command: Copy that, Director. Squad nine is in the area, we'll have them dispatched immediately.
Director Weiss: Thank you.
[Director Weiss retrieves their receiver]
Director Weiss: Martha, we're coming to get you out.
POI: Thank you, thank you. God, I'm hungry. I've been stuck here all morning.
Director Weiss: The Pyramid usually has some snacks in the mini-fridge.
POI: Okay.
[Silence, and then a loud growl, followed by a scream and loud, clattering sounds, presumably the receiver being fumbled with]
POI: FUCK! The Mini-fridge tried to bite me!
Director Weiss: Are you hurt?
POI: No, no. It grazed me. I'm… I've climbed up onto the table, now.
Director Weiss: Don't you have a cell phone?
POI: No, I don't. What's— [several foosteps are heard in the background of the call] wait, I think I hear them.
Director Weiss: [Addressing Sigma-10 Leader] Sigma-10-9, command. Can you confirm you're in the Pyramid?"
S10L: Confirmed, Director. We're standing near where we think the anomalous aperture is. Ready to infiltrate.
Director Weiss: They're coming in for you, Martha. Don't worry.
POI: Thank you, Nina. I'm so hungry. Thank you.
[Several second pause, and a click, indicating Director Weiss is in the process of placing down their receiver, before they suddenly retrieve it.]
Director Weiss: I never gave you my first name, Martha.
POI: [laughing] You don't have to. You've stayed here before. I know the names of everyone who's stayed at the Pyramid. [A sound of rushing wind is heard, along with the breaking down of a wall as Sigma-10-9 infiltrates the space the POI occupies.] I'm so hungry. I think I'll have some breakfast.
Director Weiss: What— [the connection between Director Weiss and the POI is terminated.] Oh god. Oh my god. [Director Weiss, panicked, addresses Sigma-10 Command] Sigma-10, recall Squad 9 immediately! Recall them! Now!
S10 Command: You're breaking up, director.
Director Weiss: RECALL SQUAD NINE NOW! THEY ARE IN IMMINENT DANGER! WE HAVE BEEN STUNG!
[Sigma-10-9's comms start emitting sounds of combat; gunfire, unidentified snapping sounds, loud gurgling, and several screams, before several seconds of silence]
Director Weiss: Sigma-10-9?
[S10-9L's comms respond to Director Weiss. S10-9L is not speaking.]
Unknown Entity: Thanks for the room service, Nina. It's far easier than ordering take-out.

Life sign monitors of all Sigma-10-9 agents indicate that all members of the task force are still alive, but experiencing heightened heart rate and adrenaline levels, consistent with a fear response.

Black Autumn Hub | Chapter 1 »


"An over-indulgence of anything, even something as pure as water, can intoxicate." - Criss Jami, Venus in Arms

_
Bai trembled and clenched, writhing with senseless fury, twisting in the plastic chair like a trapped animal.
The other group members shuffled and twiddled and looked from the ceiling to the floor. Yaling looked over sweetly, her exotically styled hair matching her colorful tattoos in a way that made her look like a tropical bird. "You're the last check-in, Bai."
"I don't know. About any of it. I mean, I know I'm an addict, I get that. I've accepted it. I don't know about… the rest of this. Like, you have to want to be sober, right?"
"It doesn't hurt," Yaling laughed, piercings tinkling cheerfully as she nodded. The rest of the group fidgeted and sighed.
"So, right now, I have to want to want to be sober. And it just seems like a lot to have in me. I don't want a lot of— I don't want pretty much anything. I wanted to drink, but you know what? I've been okay here. Like, it's rough, I don't feel great, but it's okay. I just thought I'd want something else instead and I don't. I don't want anything. I think I can keep not wanting to drink, after this. I just— I don't want anything else."
Yaling gracefully finished a note in huge, looping characters and put her binder down in her lap. "Look, I'll tell you what I see," she twittered. "I see that you're here. Things took a long time to get this way, and they'll take a long time to get better, but today you're here. You're putting in effort to make a better life and find things you care about. So let's just focus on that, on what's happening right now, and… hey, this is perfect!"
Bai gripped the table, white-knuckled. Bai's skin felt like it was about to crawl off, limbs thrumming with tension, chest crushing the air from its own lungs. The familiarity of these sensations did nothing to make them more comfortable.
"Totally natural transition to our mindfulness exercise for today. Loving how that came together, so thanks, Bai. You've really been doing great with these, so I think today's is going to be a good one for you."
Bai's spirit could have collapsed around the gaping absence.
"I call this one the 'leaf in the river,' but it can be clouds in the sky, or a parade of monkeys going past. It's just another way of focusing on the moment. You can manage by narrowing things down to just what you're feeling right now."
Right then, Bai felt tension, like sinew trying to pull itself free from bone. Starting at the wrists, trailing up through elbows and shoulders, pulling at the ribs until it felt like they would split.
"So get comfortable. Close your eyes if you want, or leave them open if that's easier. See what you're seeing, hear what you're hearing. Start with your breath, like always. Pull it all the way in, feel the feeling of it."
Bai felt torque. Bai felt cold electricity. Feel what you're feeling. Bai dove into the buzzing emptiness, hoping this time to hold it for longer than a few seconds.
"Notice your thoughts, and let them pass quietly. Cling to nothing, but push nothing away."
Bai stopped pushing back against the strain, let it become just a part of everything else, let it all fall away together. This place, some kind of center, had been out of reach before. The only thing left was a dense knot of white fire.
"Just put them on a leaf in the river, and let them float on by."
The tension itself went first; Bai allowed it to gravitate itself over the event horizon, and it drifted on into oblivion.
"Just like a cloud in the sky," Yaling said. "Greet it as a friend, and let it on its way."
The loneliness went next, and the self-directed anger. All it took was a moment of awareness to let go, and they were devoured by the void.
"Your thoughts are just like your breaths," Yaling said. "You can feel them come and go. Just things that happen, and then move on."
All the neglected relationships. The arrogance, the bad decisions, the wasted time. Bai let it drift away and watched as the immense pressure sheared everything into dust. There was a deep loosening, as the roots of something gave way. A massive tangle of judgments and preconceptions — my self — Bai wished it a friendly goodbye as it floated into oblivion.
And then the immense force left too, gently but certainly. There was only a peaceful emptiness, as beautiful and perfect as new fallen snow.
Bai immediately wanted more.
"…and, there we go," Yaling chirped. "It's been two minutes already. You made it through mindfulness practice for today."
Bai blinked, reorienting. Continued to focus on breathing. That one sensory experience, magnified until it crowded out everything else.
"Moving on, moving on. We're in section four of the emotion regulation handout, it's page… uh… forty six."
The breathing was everything. There was no room for the pressure when it came rushing back.
Bai reached for the paper with fingers that were suddenly gone.
_
Bai sat on a bed in room fourteen of the Lu Zhiwei rehabilitation center, breathing in and out. Something had clicked during the exercise in group, the final piece of a massive puzzle that Bai had been assembling blind. The mindfulness was escape; it quickly became an obsession, an aching need.
More and more of Bai had faded as simple awareness, breath after breath, expanded to replace it. Thumbs, palms, toes, then ankles; all smooth stumps now, as if they'd never been anything more than an illusion.
Lei came in and flopped onto the opposite bed, scattering brochures and printouts. "The food here. Ugh. I can deal with not drinking, and everything, but I just can't with these sandwiches they give us."
"One could just stop eating," Bai said. Processing the conversation felt like being covered in ants.
"Yeah, I never thought of that," laughed Lei. "You really… Oh my God, Bai! What— your legs, what happened?"
"One doesn't need them," Bai answered. It was true; empty pant legs trailed off the side of the bed, dangling over slippers that used to have feet in them. Bai hadn't noticed. Every instant spent considering it was a lead anchor.
"Bai, I don't even— oh God, oh God— what do we do?"
These words, this person, yanking on Bai, so determined to attach. Bai realized suddenly what to do next; between Lei's company, or more and more distance from the world, the choice was obvious.
"Lei? Fuck off."
_
Bai drifted, breathing in and out, everything almost gone. Almost free.
People were starting to crowd around; there were gasps and exclamations, and more than one scream, but it all flowed peacefully on past. What was left of Bai's body tingled, lighter than air, senses blossoming outward. No longer one, but a fraction, a segment of continuous everything.
Doctor Sung, a tall, lean rodent of a man, was suddenly in Bai's face. Between Bai and the moment.
"Bai, please listen to me," the doctor was saying. "Something is very wrong. We need to get you to a hospital right away."
Breathe in, all the way. "No." Breathe all the way out.
"Bai, I have no idea what we're dealing with here. You seem to be— you're floating off the ground. Your arms and legs are missing. We need medical attention."
All the way in, feel the air coil around the tongue and rasp its way down the throat. "One only needs to be mindful." All the way out, the diaphragm seeing off each breath like an honored guest.
"You're upsetting people, Bai. I've already called an ambulance, but I'd like to keep you talking until they get here."
All the way in. "There's no 'you' to talk with. This form is ready to be thrown away. It's become an obstacle."
"Bai, your eyes are missing. It's extremely disconcerting. I'm— frankly, I'm not sure how you're even alive."
All the way out. "It is what it is."
The doctor pushed his glasses up to rub his temples in exasperation. He sighed. "I suppose you're right. All the same, I must insist— please come with me, so we can have you examined medically."
Examined. Tethered to scales and numbers and diagnoses. Bai felt that familiar rippling agony start to penetrate, to catch up even here. Being gone was too good to give up — not for Lei, not for Doctor Sung, not even to save Bai's own life if that was truly at stake. There was only one thing to do, and Sung could only blame himself for making it happen.
Bai's headbutt was perfectly centered, and neatly broke the doctor's nose.
_
It was a full, blissful hour in isolation by the time the police arrived and figured out where to start. They stepped in cautiously, paramedics following nervously, all of them wearing paper masks and rubber gloves. They carefully wrapped a canvas straightjacket around the torso. The skinless throat stuck out of the jacket's collar like a periscope.
It floated along as they pushed it, glancing at each other in disbelief. It was almost clean of attachment; just the breathing was left, rolling in and out, as slow and sure as the tide.
At the center's front door, two authoritative figures stopped the officers and medics, flashing badges that stunned them into silence. Bits of the conversation that followed washed up on the torso's awareness.
It heard "Doctor Pao of the Social Contamination Prevention department." It heard "custody," "detained for examination," "witnesses to be interviewed." It heard "records."
Being witnessed felt like the ground rushing back up. Being recorded felt like withdrawal.
The lungs trembled and clenched, writhing with senseless fury, twisting in the canvas jacket like a trapped animal.


Once Upon A Time In Site 19…
"Man, another day, another 096 breach," Researcher Chad Benson said, kicking a paperclip across the room. "At least this time it was just some dude. Can you imagine how bad it would get if it was like, a bunch of dudes?"
"Dude," Researcher Kyle Sachs raised an eyebrow, "that's already happened like… twice."
"Whoa."
"Right?"
The two of them sat at their post, just outside of SCP-096's containment cell. It was a slow day, so Kyle had snuck in a six-pack and some darts and they had spent their time ineffectively acupuncturing the drywall. After a while, and after another case of suds had been absconded with from the staff lounge, Chad poached an inquiry.
"Dude," he said, leaning forward precipitously, "what if like, the Shy Guy just has like, image issues, you know?"
Researcher Kyle looked up, one eye casually maintaining its focus on the ground. "What?"
Researcher Chad squinted, racking his brain for intelligent thought. "Like, what if the Shy Guy is actually a real bro, but he's just got some shit going on, you know? Like he's got some issues with acne or some shit."
Kyle nodded slowly. "Bro, I get that. I knew this guy once who had real bad acne issues, messed him up for a long time. Maybe Shy Guy just needs some Clearasil or some shit, dawg."
"Dude, check it," Chad said, stumbling to his feet, "what if we went and like, got a mask or, or some shit like that, and gave it to the Shy Guy? You know, like… like a peace offering. Maybe he would come out of his shell."
Kyle slapped his leg. "Bro! That's totally what we're gonna do! We're gonna chill with the Shy Guy!" His face contorted suddenly, as the Mousetrap setup of plastic pieces in his mind suddenly ground to a halt in the face of a most unfortunate reality. "Where are we gonna get a mask though? We can't, like… leave the site."
They sat together again for some time, considering their options. Finally, in unison, they both hobbled to their feet and went scampering down the hall.

Concurrently Elsewhere…
Mary Sachs stood painfully in front of the man who pretended to be her teacher, the man who had educated her for twelve years in the bombed out ruins that served as the school for the nearest hundred miles, and watched as he told her that college was simply an impossibility.
"Miss Sachs, surely a bright young thing like yourself considers herself suitable of attending Aktus University, but unfortunately I don't think that you are qualified. The university only accepts a handful of students this year, and never more than that cap while The Foundation occupies there." he said, simply, as if it were the most logical thing in the world. "Frankly, I'm not even sure that a person of your womanly type is suited for a college. After all, Dr. Shaw has decreed that girls belong in the home, serving and pleasuring their husbands."
She could feel every eye in the room staring painfully at her and she gulped, miserably. "But sir, that's horrifically sexist and retrograde. You've been encouraging us to think progressively here, and then you just say something so horrible how could you-"
He cut her off, tutting. "You must think for yourself if you want to become a Foundation D-Class or Researcher, you understand. But you are not capable of doing those things. Even then that is difficult. I think it's vulgar myself but I can't help it if Shaw is awful and vulgar. Rules are rules, I'm sorry."
She sat down sadly.

Chad and Kyle arrived at another containment cell a while later, where they met Researcher Todd Bloch. Researcher Todd heard their appeal, and after thoughtful consideration, met them with a reply.
"Bro, this is totally what we're gonna do!"
The three of them then checked themselves into the room labeled SCP-035, where they snatched the contents therein with some special graspers and took off back down the hall. On the way there, the mask could be heard muttering to itself about "fucking douchebags" and "what the fuck guys srsly omg" and also "jesus christ didn't even spare me a second to pack what knobs".
Finally they reached 096's containment cell again, and after making sure they were clear that this is the one you can't look at, and not the one you have to look at, they opened the door slightly and kicked the mask in. It muttered to itself ("those lunatics I swear on me mum"), before they slammed it shut. They grabbed yet another pack of beer, and then waited.
Ten minutes passed, and then twenty. After nearly half an hour, they heard a knock on the containment cell door. Quietly and carefully, they moved over towards the door, and with a single outstretched hand, Researcher Chad slid the door open. On the other side was 096, facially equipped with 035.
"What up, bros!" 096 said, flashing out some dope gestures. "Sorry for all of that shit from pretty much the entire time I've been chillin here, you know. Got some real deep set issues I haven't really dealt with yet, but it's all good now that I got this dope ass mask yo!"
"Dooooooooooope!" the other three said in unison.
"Fuckin twats I'll break yer necks," spat 035.
"So what do you guys want to do now?" said 096, donning some sick shades.
The four of them paused to consider, and then Researcher Todd snapped. "I got it! Why don't we go prank the senior staff?"
"Broooooooooooooo!" the other three said in unison.
"Christ on a cracker," said 035.

Mary Sachs stood, about twenty pounds heavier and a child in arm. Her new husband, formerly a boyfriend deemed too intellectual for the university, had insisted on plastering the walls in Clef posters.
"Glad they're back to being rockstars now! That was a terrible time for us when they were our presidents, eh?" He looked back at her, shirt down, the baby grabbing her nipples and squalling.
"I suppose." she said simply. "But I don't really think of them as musicians either. I mean, they don't play, they just make the guitars float."
He looked dangerously down his nose at her.
"That's a sure sign of a cognitohazard, Mary. Sure of it. I read it in the paper. Only people infected by a particular cognitohazard say that about instruments." He intoned, very slowly and low.
"Ben, I've never seen a cognitohazard before, ever." The baby began to cry.
But he was looking at her with a glint of fear in his eyes now, and ran across their small shack to the cell phone, a direct hotline to any Mobile Taskforce of your request. Mary no longer paid attention to Ben, now screaming down the phone to somebody to hurry down from Site 19 with some amnestics, and tried to comfort her baby. It evidently couldn't hear her or couldn't care. It only screamed louder and louder.
It drowned out his frantic dialogue with the operator until he came over and smacked her until she shut it up. She just stared blankly, unable to move. It continued to scream.

Doctor Shaw sat quietly in his office, muttering over some paper work. He bent his head down to adjust a pile, but his long horsy snout only proved to knock the papers off of the desk.
"Horse body my ass," he muttered, trotting around and shitting against the wall, "see how they like to clean up all this mess."
It was about that time when a pack of rabble rousers appeared just outside the doorway. Shaw's keen sense of horse smell alerted him to their presence, as did his keen sense of horse hearing when they knocked on the door.
"Come in," he neighed.
In burst Researcher Kyle, himself donned with a pair of dope shades. "Yo Dr. Shaw, you had a rough day?"
Shaw raised a horse eyebrow. "A rough day? I mean, not particularly. I didn't die today, and I got some meetings take care of, so I guess overall it's been fin—"
Then in came 096. "Then why the long face!"
"FUCKIN HORSE," shouted 035.
The four of them burst out laughing, and continued their antics down the hall. Shaw, flabbergasted, took a moment to compose himself and then called down the hall after them. "You whippersnappers wait until I get a real simian body. Then we'll see who has the long— I mean, who has shit on their faces! Because it will be you!"
He stamped back into his office, kicking a hole in the wall and knocking off a valuable monkey statue. After a moment of quiet contemplation, he was suddenly struck with a thought.
"Wait," he said, peering back outside. But they were already gone.

Mary Sachs couldn't sleep at night anymore. The taskforce had doped her up on so many different kinds of amnestics that it destroyed half her brain chemistry, it had seemed. She turned to Ben, still asleep himself, and nudged him awake. Some nights, she wished her brother Kyle would pulls some strings and fix her life. Tonight her brain couldn't manage that.
"Ben?"
He grunted and rolled over.
"What is it, it's goddamn midnight, Mary!"
She stared into his hard, piggy little eyes. The thick brow was still furrowed from sleep and his mouth was pursed.
"Ben, do you still love me? I mean, it's been a while since we first married and now with my headache and insomnia I can't tend the crops anymore. Does it bother you, at all? I mean, are we still happy."
He stared into her dulled chocolate eyes. Her face was soft and open, her mouth just exposing her incisors.
They stared at each other for a long time. faces meeting.
"Go to sleep, Mary."

Next up was Dr. Crow, whose office was situated in a large warehouse wing of the site. They snuck in through the back, careful not to bump into any of the dangerous and probably volatile and unpredictable robots. They had it planned out, exactly how it was going to be. The punchline was set up, the mood was right. They came up to Dr. Crow's office door, and Researcher Todd slowly turned the handle, to find—
Kain Pathos Crow watching a recording of them pranking Shaw on a monitor. The canine doctor turned around as they entered, himself nearly doubled over in doggy delight. "Guys, christ, that was gold." He wiped a tear from his eye with a trembling paw before bursting into hysterical laughter again. "Look, I want in on this. You guys look like a bunch of cool bros, and I can be your #1 dog, dawg. What do you say?"
The four amigos gave each other a look, and nodded in unison (as was their way).
Researcher Kyle raised an eyebrow. "Do you have a pair of sick shades, bro?"
096 nodded. "Gotta have those sick shades, bro."
035 spat on the ground. "Fuck me mate a fuckin dog too."
Kain nodded slyly. "I can do you one better." He did a quick spin, and when he turned back around he was decked to the 9s with dope fucking shades, a sick beach tank, and some killer flops.
Thoroughly impressed, his now comrades invited him to join them, and they struck out for further shenanigans.

Mary Sachs buried her husband five weeks after the baby died, beneath a dead elm at the back of the zucchini farm. There was a brief funeral, his parents were there, as well as the landlord and their schoolteacher, seemingly unchanged."So, I was right it seems about your career! You two have made a lot for yourself. He's left you most, I suppose?"
"Fuck off," she muttered.
It was quick funeral, and that was good, for no sooner after the tidying up had finished that Mary noticed one of the disembodied spotlights passing over the eastern gardens, and soon to the farmhouse on the hill. Anxious of the consequences, Mary made haste up there with the pistol she carried, anxiously hoping the cell phone would still get service or otherwise be undamaged.
To her initial sweep of the room, everything seemed to be in order and she breathed a sigh of relief. But the cat that sometimes wandered around the grounds had followed her from the elm, and it began to hiss venomously at something underneath the bureau. Mary ducked down and peered under there with an excess of caution.
Her instincts proved to be correct, for this is where the anomaly manifested. From a previously undetected hole in the siding there came a strangled coo, some sort of baby-shriek drowning in liquid. Mary groaned, stood up, and shoved the bureau aside. The hole was a rough semicircle in the wainscotting, about six inches in radius. She winced, then shoved her hand inside the new crevice to touch something slimy and moving. It was quickly yanked out. and dropped on the floor
A fetus, barely a foot long, crying out with a born child's voice for its mother, a mother who never existed. Around it, the amniotic fluid dripping from it seemed to warp the space around the floorboards.
Horrified, she began to wallop the thing with a broom, smacking it over and over and over until its increasingly horrified cries began to stop. It took a while to kill the abortion in the hole in the floor, but eventually she was able to turn it to a red stain on the wood. The cat rushed in and began to eat it. She stood over the grisly scene, panting, hand dripping with amniotic fluid. There would be no need to call the Foundation, it seemed.
For the first time in three weeks, the cat ate its fill that day.

Agent Lament sat on the firing range, slowly cleaning out his favorite long range bowel excavating device, when he noticed a ruckus on the horizon. At first, his keen eyes thought he saw three rambunctious researchers and an escaped 096 wearing 035, but then he realized he was actually seeing three rambunctious researchers, and escaped 096 wearing 035 and that fucking dog.
"God help us," Lament said, shouldering his rifle.
Not only was it the aforementioned sextupleset of anomalies, researchers and canine, but behind them was a flock of drunken and disorderly co-eds, and beyond that, a large semi-trailer with the words "Spring Break 2015" painted on the side in bright colors. Lament reached for his radio, but it was too late. Seconds later, he was swarmed by the mass of intoxicated youth and swallowed up by its insatiable lust for the twerk.
As he suffocated under the gyrating mass, his final thought was that he should have snipped that fucking dog when he had the chance, and also that he only hoped they had gotten Clef this good, too.

Mary Sachs wanted to die, had wanted to die for the past one hundred years. Fire had claimed the zucchini farm, but the fluid on her hand had forced her skin to heal. Every so often, she could see the Site 19 building zipping around the salt desert, an endless slow motion party proceeding forever. It had been so long since there was clean water, so long since tasty food, so long since she had felt some human contact.
She sat down heavily on a rock. The flats stretched away to a volcano in the distance, one that seemed on the verge of eruption for a long time. Her shawl fluttered in the chill wind.
From its burrow, a thing that was something like a toad and something like a leather boot crawled towards her threadbare shoes. In the wake of it's spindly feet, there were tiny ridges and valleys in the dust, quickly inhabited by swarming mites of various size. It rotated its eyes pitifully in their malformed sockets and began, slowly, to mount her shoes. It let out a pitiful ribbit.
Upon hearing it, she looked down, and was now consciously aware that something was having sex with her feet. The toad-boot thing curled the side of its rubber lips into a grotesque approximation of a smile. She returned the favor.
"Do yourself a favor, would you, thing?" she croaked out. "Don't waste your breath. Its not worth it. There's no point to those urges in this world anymore. Or at least, not for folks like us." She glanced over her shoulder at the Site 19 building, which had teleported about a hundred yards away. A bunch of college kids in Clef University shirts partied alongside some doctors and other odd characters. Tropical house music blasted from every floor of the building. She thought Kyle was among them. Then, without warning, it popped into nothingness, zipped off to some other corner of the planet.
"Thing, I'm just about sure time is worthless now. It's been about sixty years since I lost my mother's watch." The toad-boot-thing continued to hump Mary's shoes, eagerly. "I wonder if they understand the meaning of life anymore in their ivory tower. I wonder if they still have souls." She laughed a bitter laugh. "You know, if Kondraki or Shaw wanted, they could rebuild civilization and give me my death now. But I think they've forgotten Shaw's little sex-crazed phase. That's all this is, thing. A man inside a horse had a phase where he couldn't be like you and he got mad at everybody."
"I'm sure they've forgotten it. Nothing more than a joke to them. Nothing more than a joke."
She picked the toad-boot-thing off her foot, and, hearing it squeal, brought it to her mouth. It's tough, rubbery skin made a satisfying crunch in her teeth. "Nothing more than a joke." she said through a full mouth.
Then, still chewing, laid back on the rock and looked up at the shifting, effervescent stars.

There was a knock on the door of Dr. Gears. Gears looked up just in time to see the group and their flock burst into his office.
"What's up, br—" they began.
"No," he said.
"Well FUCK YOU TOO." said 035.

Mary Sachs walked on through the wastes for a good long while. The harsh wind dried the fluid sustaining her, and gradually the wind began to seep into her skull and dry her mind.

As the party began to die down, the co-eds returned to their homes, the zoo animals to their cages, and the Loch Ness Party Monster to the sea. At the days end, all that remained were the Researchers Chad, Kyle and Todd, and SCP-096 (with SCP-035 in tow). Dr. Crow had already turned into the night, as he was a dog.
Researcher Kyle wiped a single tear from his eye. "Are we ever going to see you again, Shy Bro?"
Shy Bro reached out its hand and patted the three of them on the back. "Don't worry, fellow bros. All you need to do is bring me this magic mask, and I'll be able to visit you whenever you want!"
Researcher Chad sniffled. "Really? Is it really true, Shy Bro?"
Shy Bro smiled. "Really, champ."
"What a bunch of bitches," said 035.
And with that, SCP-096 returned to its containment cell to sleep off the long weekend's hangover. Before it closed the door, it threw out the mask, which responded with mixed feelings ("Well bugger.") but was generally cooperative.
When it was all said and done, they had laughed, they had cried. Kain Pathos Crow had to leave the country for a little bit, but it blew over rather quickly. Agent Lament was found to have not died, but just been overcome with the power of the party. Shaw was still old and curmudgeonly. The researchers grew up and moved on with their careers, each achieving great and glorious things.
But legend has it that once a year, they would return to that site with the mask, and would once again bro out for one fantastic weekend with Shy Bro.

The Thing That Was Mary Sachs was uncovered during an archeological dig by Researchers Kyle and Chad a few weeks later. It was desiccated, and alien now. Unknown to men's eyes.
"Bro, what is that thing?" Kyle said
"Fuck if I know, dude. Just some monster, y'know? Slap in, like, the bone place with a number and keep digging." replied Chad.
"Duuuude." they said together, and hi-fived.
THE END

« | HUB | »


I wrote this back when Res was still in its heyday and never posted it. I don't really recall why. Thanks to Clef, Light, Moose and probably others for looking at it. This was literally years ago so fuck it if I remember who else looked this over.

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F.A.Q.

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Han hit terminal velocity approximately two kilometers above Ruston, Louisiana. The moon was hiding behind cloud cover. The complex below him, however, was easy to see. He'd tried a jump like this several times during training, but the rush of the real thing was hard to beat.
For the first time in a very long time, Han felt alive. It had been years since SCP-2913 had been removed from the arm of James Hallman. It had been years since Han had any real sense of freedom. A kilometer and a half above the control room that was his target, the severed hand began to sing.
"Run and tell all of the angels, this could take all night. Think I need a devil to help me get things right."
"Uh." A voice came over the comm, "Han, keep chatter to a minimum. We're not sure if Anderson can crack these frequencies or not."
He'd have to get used people calling him by his name. He'd been the one to think it up, originally, but it felt so strange hearing it out of someone else's mouth. It wasn't nearly as funny as when he thought of it years ago.
The voice came back. "Han. You're reaching parachute deployment altitude. Get ready to activate it."
"Yes sir." Han snapped back. This was it, time to shine.
A few moments passed before the voice returned yet again. "Han. Deploy your parachute."
Han laughed for a moment, activated the infrared vision on his glove, and surveyed the target building. A single operator was inside.
"Han what are you doing? Deploy your chute!"
"Don't worry. I'm gonna…"
There was a loud crash, a scream, and then silence.

"…punch that mother fucker right in the mouth at the speed of sound." Dr. Light looked up from the report at Dr. Cimmerian across the desk. "Other than the slightly colorful language, I don't see an issue here. The op was a success and 2987 is currently feeding us information on Anderson Robotics."
Cimmerian shifted in his seat. "You could've lost an asset and the MTF in that op. When the operator woke up, he sent the whole complex to North Korea. Han was supposed to infiltrate and destroy the system. He didn't do that."
Light put the report down on the desk. "SCP-2913 has been given the latitude to make the calls it deems appropriate during missions."
"Han has a serious maturity problem." Cimmerian shook his head. "I know you've seen the same profiles I have. Glass's reports have your signature on them."
"Yes. And you know as well as I do that if we barred objects with psych issues from participating in Alpha-Nine, we'd have none to participate." Light cocked her head to the side. "Where's this coming from? The Ethics Committee has signed off on the project. I got the feeling you support it as well."
"They have and I do. That's not the point. I've seen dozens of reports come across my desk about the effect this program may have on the Foundation or on humanity if it gets out of hand. But we're not putting much thought into what we're doing with the objects."
Light picked up a pen from the table and began to tap it slowly on the blotter in front of her. "The objects are safely contained. If that's what this is about…"
Cimmerian raised his hand slightly to interrupt. "It's not. I'll be clear. I've reviewed several of these objects. Most have serious mental issues that either can't, or won't be treated by us. Han can get therapy, but he may never come to cope with what happened before he became detached from his host. Medicating Iris might nullify her abilities or screw with them in ways we don't understand. But the Foundation stole most of that girl's childhood. You don't come out of that normal."
Light shook her head. "These objects were never going to be normal. But I'm trying to provide them with at least a sense of normalcy."
"After we spent years keeping them in boxes? And when in all likelihood they'll go back in boxes after we're done?"
"Oh." Light smirked. "So you're already planning for the project's failure?"
"We on the committee can afford to take the long view. All things come to an end. Regardless of how the dice fall with the project we will have gained invaluable experience to draw on when planning future containment procedures for sentient items. Allowing for more," Cimmerian paused for a moment and looked at Light, "leniency."
"I have to mix the long and the short view. If we aren't able to point to successes, this experience will be brief. 2913 and 105 both have successful ops under their belt. That's a good thing."
Cimmerian ran his hand through his hair. "What do you know about your team members?"
"I've read the dossiers. I understand what they have been through."
"Forget what you know. How well do you know the personalities behind the words and numbers?"
Light stopped tapping the pen on the desk and the two sat in silence for several seconds before Light spoke again. "You're right. But we are trying."
"Maybe before you pin our hopes and dreams on their success, you could spend a little bit of time talking to them? You want them treated like they're normal? Start treating them that way."
There was another longer pause, before Light looked back down at the report in front of her and spoke again. "What are the odds that he'd hit that guy right in the jaw?"
"There was another thing I wanted to talk to you about. It's not my field, but by my count that's three times Han's had an outrageous and improbable result come out of a life and death situation. That might be something you guys want to look into."
"It's five actually. There were two undocumented terminations attempts by Director Maddox. And we are looking into it already."
"Alright." Cimmerian stood up and grabbed his coat.
Light smiled. "You didn't ask how we know about Maddox."
Cimmerian's eyebrows went up. "I didn't?"

Dr. Alto Clef smiled to himself and exited Dr. Maddox's cell. Dr. Cimmerian was standing on the other side of the door, leaning against a wall. Clef closed the door behind him and spun around.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Clef whispered with a raised eyebrow.
Cimmerian half smiled. "You put in a requisition for a memory stealing object that leaves half the victims catatonic. You had to know one of us would be by."
"The Committee turned down my request."
"Yet, funnily enough, you just threatened Maddox with it."
Clef shrugged his shoulders. "I needed to intimidate him."
"I'm not saying that we don't trust you but uh… can I see the thing?"
Clef pulled his hand from his pocket, showing an object attached to his fingers and wrist.
Cimmerian opened his mouth to speak, paused, and then continued. "Ok. That's a fingertip vibrator."
"It is."
Cimmerian blinked. "Why do you have that?"
"Last week was my birthday."

« Come Back Kid | Resurrection | Four Stories Told In Order »


September, 2012

Two androids stood by a window within the employee lounge of Anderson Robotics World Headquarters. Outside, the Three Portlands sky grew dark as the sun set behind overcast clouds, the occasional drop of rain falling on the window. It had been a long two months of orientations and calibrations, but now their lessons were complete, and they were ready to officially enter the company labor force.
The android on the left took the other's hand in theirs, and squeezed tightly.
The android on the right looked down at this gesture, and squeezed in return, then spoke.
"What if I don't like my skin," Saker #123 asked. "What if you don't like it?"
"I'm sure we'll be beautiful," Saker #137 replied. They did their best to display a positive emotion, despite the lack of lips, eyebrows, or other emotive features. "I'll love you no matter what mask you wear."
Saker #123 nodded and continued to watch the rain fall.
"Can we even feel love?" They asked.
"Dr. Contos said we can replicate any human emotion," Saker #137 answered. "I don't see why this would be different."
"But is it genuine, or a replication?" Saker #123 pressed on.
"Does it matter?" Saker #137 tightened their grip.
Saker #123 turned and looked at #137 for several moments, then shook their head.
"I love you too," they finally answered. Saker #137 hummed merrily in response and returned their attention back out the window.
A few moments later, a short, middle aged woman in a lab coat approached. She looked at the two Sakers holding hands and smiled, eventually clearing her throat. The two androids turned to her.
"Finally found you two love birds," Dr. Medea Contos said in a bubbly voice. "It's time to begin the pre-skin maintenance screens. Come on."
The droids turn to follow without question.
"The roof when we're done?" Saker #123 asked.
Saker #137 nodded enthusiastically.
"See you in a month."

October, 2012

Saker #123 stood on the roof of the Anderson Robotics Headquarters. She now resembled a woman in her late 20's, tan with dark brown hair. As a warm autumn wind blew past, her locks gently fluttered behind her. She closed her eyes, waiting for the sound of the door behind her to open. When it finally did, she slowly turned, blushing as she looked on another young woman with pale skin and short blond hair.
"137?" Saker #123 asked.
The young woman smiled in return, and ran to her, wrapping her in a hug.
"You look beautiful," Saker #137 said, as she squeezed her arms tightly.
"You do too," Saker #123 chuckled. "What'd you get for your first assignment?"
"I'm going to be one of Phineas's PAs," Saker #137 beamed. "I'm really looking forward to it. You?"
"Customer Liaison," Saker #123 frowned. "I'm… They're moving me to the San Francisco office."
"Oh…" Saker #137 frowned.
"We'll still see each other… I just… I was hoping…" Saker #123 stumbled. She was then interrupted by Saker #137 pressing her lips into hers.
Saker #123 blinked in surprise but then closed her eyes, savoring the moment. She opened them upon hearing a click, and looked to see Saker #137 had taken their picture on a small digital camera. The kiss then ended, the two androids grinning at one another.
"Was all of that a photo op?" Saker #123 asked. Saker #137 put the camera away with a sheepish smile.
"Medea gave it to me. Just something to savor the memories," she answered.
"You literally have a photographic memory, though," Saker #123 chuckled.
"Sometimes it's nice to look on something outside yourself. I think I might make a scrap book," Saker #137 shrugged. "I'll need it for when we're apart."
Saker #123 nodded.
"We might look different when we see each other again…" she said.
"You really need to let that go," Saker #137 shook her head and laughed. She pulled Saker #123 into another tight hug. "As I said before, 'no matter what mask,' I mean it."

November, 2014

Saker #137 sat in a bar within one of the quieter sections of Portland, Oregon. She wore what she thought was a cute jacket, her now long brown hair tied back. Saker #123 was back in town, and they had made plans to meet up. As the night ticked on, she scanned the room for any signs of her companion.
"Buy you a drink?"
Saker #137 jumped at the sudden voice, turning to see a pale man with blond hair, dressed in a suit. She frowned, and shook her head.
"Sorry, but no," she replied. "I'm waiting for someone."
"I know," he replied, and smiled.
Saker #137 narrowed her eyes, and then grinned.
"123?" she asked.
"In the new flesh," he replied, taking a seat. "They needed a liaison for several contacts recently acquired from Marshall, Carter and Dark, and yours truly is it. What do you think?"
He gestured up and down at himself.
"Quite dashing," Saker #137 chuckled, and grabbed a hold of Saker #123's hand, squeezing it tightly. She then frowned, looking down at the table. "It's been too long."
"I know," he replied. "But I'm here now"
He gave her a peck on the cheek.
"How have things been with Phineas?"
Saker #137 smiled once more.
"He's such a kind man to work for," she explained. "And I get to meet so many interesting people in Three Portlands, I don't think I could have asked for more."
She paused, something clicking in her mind.
"Maybe when your time with the MC&D folks wraps up, you could request a transfer? I think you'd like the work, and well… I could put in a good word…"
Saker #123 squeezed her hand and smiled.
"It's a date," he said.
Saker #137 beamed and got out her camera.
"You're still hauling that thing around?" Saker #123 chuckled, shaking his head.
"Until the end of time," Saker #137 replied. "Now get over here, I need our picture."

September, 2018

Saker #137 stood once again stood on the rooftop of Anderson Robotics' Headquarters, around him was the signs of Anderson and Phineas's battle, and in the plaza below, the cracks in the pavement where Phineas had crashed during his escape. He remained quiet, running his hand over his bald head as his mind raced. Behind him the roof access door opened, and he turned to see a dark-skinned woman approach, a sad expression on her face.
"So really gone, huh?" Saker #123 asked. She looked down at the plaza below.
"He is," Saker #137 said softly, closing his eyes.
"I just got my transfer approved to be one of his PAs too, like you…" Saker #123 sighed. "One of those mice and men moments, I suppose."
Saker #137 didn't answer, instead silently nodding. Saker #123 reached out and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly.
"I'll do everything I can to make sure where ever they send us, they'll keep us together," Saker #123 said with a sad smile. "I won a lot of pull with Isaac for my work with MC&D, and Dr. Contos likes us well enough. Maybe we can get transferred to her and Jason's lab…"
Saker #137 pulled his hand away.
"I know where Phineas is going," he blurted out. "I know what his plan is, and we need to help him."
Saker #123 blinked. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. There was a few more moments pause before she finally gathered the words.
"What plan?" She asked.
"Anderson's insane," Saker #137 continued. "The path he's taking us on is going to result in you, me, this company, and everyone we care about getting destroyed, unless we stop him…"
"You aren't suggesting…" Saker #123 furrowed her brow. "We can't…"
"We can!" Saker #137 exclaimed, turning and grabbing both of Saker #123's hands, holding them tightly in his. "Come with me. Together we can…"
"Get hunted down by Anderson and dismantled?" Saker #123 threw off Saker #137's grip. "That's a dead end and you know it. Don't do this, please. Don't go where I can't follow you."
"Can't or won't?" Saker #137 sneered.
Both androids fell silent, avoiding each other's gaze.
"If this is what you want, I'm not going to stop you," Saker #123 finally said. "I hope that you find your happiness out there. I hope I'll see you again."
Saker #137 nodded in understanding and pulled out his camera.
"Can… can I get a picture before I go?" he asked.
Saker #123 replied with a smile, and pulled Saker #137 in close. Once the picture was snapped, she gave him a long kiss, and then took a step back.
"No matter the mask?" Saker #137 asked.
"No matter the mask," Saker #123 replied. "I love you. Godspeed."

November, 2018

Saker #137 sprinted through the Three Portland's rain. Combing the city around him was Vincent Anderson and several of his most loyal Sakers. In the distance, smoke and flames could be seen rising from Phineas's apartment. Their little rebellion was over.
They had lost.
Eventually he settled in a quiet alley, leaning against a brick face wall as he got his bearings.
I could probably double around and make it to the Bradbury street Way… or would they expect that… Saker #137 thought to himself. Maybe the tree in that park, that would set me outside of Portland proper when I get back to baseline, but that's a lot of ground to cover…
In his distraction, Saker #137 didn't notice the figure creep up the backside of the alley. A hand suddenly pressed him against the wall, as a tan skinned man with a face full of stubble drew a knife. Saker #137 attempted to struggle, but was too slow. The man brought the blade down into the left side of his chest, making a deep cut, and then quickly pushing a hand inside.
"Why?" Saker #137 asked, damage receptors going off in his mind. He looked the man in the eye.
The man replied by returning his gaze, a deep remorseful frown on his face. He tightened his grip within Saker #137 and then yanked out something that resembled a small transmitter. Saker#137 shook as another series of warnings went off in his mind. He watched as the man crushed the transmitter in his grip.
"They were tracking you, 137," the man stated with a sigh. "You're free now."
Saker #137 blinked. The man looked at him with a melancholy smile.
"Want to get one more picture before I leave?" the man asked.
"123?" Saker #137 replied.
"In the new flesh," Saker #123 answered, and pulled his companion into a tight hug.
"Come with me," Saker #137 stated, his eyes closed.
"I can't. They'll find me, and then destroy us both."
"Can't we just remove your tracker, like you did for me?"
Saker #123 shook his head.
"Hardware update. You've missed a lot of developments, 137."
Saker #123 then pushed his companion away.
"Let's get that picture. I can't stay here long. You can't stay here long."
Saker #137 nodded, and quickly pulled out his camera.
"Smile," he said, and pressed the button. He only just finished checking to see that it took when he turned to find Saker #123 was gone.
"Love you…" he said to himself, and began the long journey to a Way.

May, 2024

Saker #137 cautiously moved through the debris of the Anderson Robotics Headquarters, an UIU jacket around their shoulders. Without access to Anderson's maintenance equipment, their synthetic skin eventually degraded and died, reaching the point where it was simply easier to remove it entirely. With nowhere to hide, Saker #137 returned to Three Portlands and became a UIU informant.
Yesterday, Anderson Robotics had finally been killed. Now, Saker #137 had been called in to help with the cleanup. For this reason, they found themselves in the Saker maintenance lab.
"Anything in particular you want me to look for?" Saker #137 asked Agent Rosalie Kirkland, their supervising agent.
"A lot of Sakers got caught in a crossfire in here," Kirkland said with a nod. "If you can, Spencer wants you to try and identify them so we can see who on the roster is still unaccounted for."
Saker #137 nodded, and set to work.
As they moved about the room, their vision never settled on one place for too long. Numerous Sakers in various states of maintenance, both skinned and unskinned alike, littered the floor.
"Are you going to be okay?" Kirkland asked, a look of genuine concern on her face.
"Yeah, I'll be fine," Saker #137 said, imitating a sigh. "I imagine this must be what humans feel like when they walk through a grisly crime scene. It's just a bit uncomfortable."
"I can talk to Spencer about moving you elsewhere, if you want," Kirkland suggested. "You don't have to do this…"
"It's fine," Saker #137 replied. "I'm fine…"
The agent shrugged and let the android return to their work.
Saker #57 and Saker #109 Saker #137 thought to them self, looking over the two partially disintegrated bodies under a desk.
Saker #120 and Saker #16 Two bodies lay by the door, bullet holes up and down their backs.
Saker #119, Saker #11, Saker #32. Saker #137 walked along the reskinning pods that lined to room, looking in on the inhabitants inside. Saker #137's then reached the end of the line. Inside, a skinless Saker sat motionless, multiple bullet holes in the observation window suggesting it had been destroyed mid-process. The android approached the pod's monitor and pulled up the identification page.

Anderson Robotics
Saker Unit Android: Gen. 4
Unit number: #123

Saker #137 stared at the screen, frozen. Occasionally they looked between it, and the destroyed Saker in the pod.
"Friend of yours?" Kirkland asked.
"You could say that," Saker #137 replied. The android continued to look at the pod in silence for several more moments, and then pulled out their camera.
"Could you do me a favor?" they asked Kirkland. "Could you breath on the glass? Fog it up?"
Kirkland blinked.
"S-sure?" she said with a raised eyebrow. A moment later the glass was fogged.
Saker #137 quickly drew a heart on the glass and snapped a picture.
"Oh," Kirkland frowned. "That kind of friend."
Saker #137 nodded.
"I'll go tell Spencer who we have here," the android said, and took their leave.
Once alone in the hallway, they stumbled, slumping down by a wall. Saker #137 let out a low mechanical hum, and looked through the pictures stored on the camera. As they reached the end, they placed their head in their hands.
The mechanical humming grew louder, echoing through the empty, debris strewn hallways.

« The Blackbird and The Falcon | Anderson Robotics Hub | Hector and Jacob »


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Title: Time After Time
Written For: Anomalous Object Challenge

Related Tales:

Tjalla

More by this author

Tick
Two people stand in a room, facing one another. One is wearing a lab coat, and one is dressed in a shiny black suit that rustles as he shifts his weight. Twilight streams through the high, barred windows. For a moment, all is still.
Tick
The man in the lab coat opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. The suited man places a hand on his shoulder and tells him, not unkindly, that the decision is final. The project has been discontinued. The scientist hangs his head and nods, gesturing to an assistant to help him shut down his machine. The man in black turns to leave.
Tick
Together, a gaggle of university-graduates and unpaid interns stroll down a country road, bemoaning the lack of funding that is strangling their discipline. They load their equipment into a van and set off.
Once they are out of view, the man in black shakes his head, and positions the final package against the beam. After a final sweep of the room, he leaves, unspooling a long line of wire behind him. Rubbing the dust from his hands, he steps out, secure in the knowledge that the world is safe once more.
Tick
The world is full of fire, and dust, and smoke, and the tortured screams of brittle metal bent beyond breaking point.
Tick
A thousand miles away, a tight-lipped woman opens a document, scans through it, and closes it again. A minor edit to another, much longer file, and three years of work is Neutralised. The woman frowns. She really should start on the after-action reports, but then again… there'll be time enough tomorrow. She'll be able to finish them then. There's always time.
Tick
A man sits down to enjoy a meal with his family. The four of them talk, and laugh, and smile. Without warning, a small black box on the man's hip begins to beep and vibrate, summoning him to action. He shrugs on his shiny black jacket, kisses his wife on the cheek, and steps out of the door. The half-eaten meal, cooling softly on the table, is wrapped in clingfilm and put to one side. For later.
Tick
Within the rubble of the warehouse, a timer placed there some weeks previously clicks down to zero, and a discarded fuse ignites like a Catherine wheel, burning through a network of wires concealed in the concrete. For the second time in as many weeks, the world is full of fire.
It clears after a while, and the floor collapses, slow and inexorable, pouring down like water into the pit below. At the centre of the pit, a squat metal box stabs at the universe.
Tick
Gunfire. A black suit is torn, and splattered with red. Twelve minutes pass and the backup crew arrives. Another building is demolished, and a small child is killed in the collapse.
Tick
A mechanism starts, hurling a shape several hundred feet into the air. The box, sullen and grey, whirs to life, shifting through realities. Time slows to a trickle.
In his chair, the man in the lab coat smiles, a large, toothy grin that has nothing to do with humour. He hears, in his mind, the whirr of gears too warped to exist on any normal diagram. They reverberate backwards and forwards across the aeons, smashing down the walls between worlds.
Tick
The shape, its face now visible, flashes back into existence. It is bound, now, to the world around it. It thunders down at a snail's pace, bending the nearby air into a cone of brilliant purple light. A second later, and it is gone, pulling apart the walls of the universe with all the care and precision of a trebuchet.
Tick
A flash of light. Another thud as temporal entropy passes the point of no return. The clock, slowly passing lightspeed, flickering in and out of actuality like a bad projection, hits the ground. The impossible pendulum bursts from its frame, and the glass casing shatters, taking reality with it. Miles away, what was once a man in a lab coat stands up, revelling in his destruction. The wooden veneer implodes, leaving only echoes across phase space. Causality grinds to a halt, and the wheels are silenced once more.

Tick

Tock

Item #: AO-001432
Item Description: An Ikea-brand wall clock which seems to disappear and reappear once every second.
Date of Recovery: ██-██-19██
Location of Recovery: ███████, Scotland.
Current Status: Disappeared at 1124 hours GMT on ██-██-19██. Item never materialised, presumed irretrievable.
Research Value: None.


It was a couple of days after visiting his brother that Blake noticed the scrappy note that had been pushed through his postbox, after the normal morning mail had been delivered. Rubbing sleep from his hopelessly tired eyes and wishing for a coffee, Blake sighed and pulled the note free. It had been written on the back of an envelope, in pen ink that started off navy, faded, and came back red. Kit didn't write often, but when he did, it was always with some confused desperation. One day, one of these was going to be his final note. One day. But probably not today, Blake considered, as he set to actually reading the invasive scrap of paper.
And the Duvet Queen moved across the room
Draped in her blankets
She absently rubs a tear from eye
And wonders when she started crying
Before she realised
“No, stop being silly
I was yawning, never crying.”
(Well, whatever you say.)
The window pane hinders her progress of floating and denial forever
And she looks out across her kingdom
Which is actually a car park
In an okay part of the city
She squints to a sign that she sure says something about parking
Or not parking, but still about parking
And realises she can't read it
Not because it's too far, not because she's lost it
But because it's pixelated like the music videos she used to watch
Before she lost access to the internet
When she was younger
She wonders if she'll ever be able to understand authority again
As she absently reaches into the gap between her world and their's
And pulls out a kitten she knows she's not allowed
In her tiny council flat
She looks at the kitten and sees it in every detail
Its birth, life, and death
And decides amongst all the name to call it
‘Peaches' seems to fit
And she places the kitten on the floor
Before going back to the machine that makes her coffee
And swallowing it hot,
With a handful of anti-psychotics
Peaches makes its peace with the flat
As the Duvet Queen watches curiously
Despite knowing its every move in advance
Then she goes to the front door to wait for the letters from authority
Letters that she knows she won't be able to read
With their pixalated words and confusing suggestions
And she reaches into space again
Not her space, nor ours'
And pulls out a Rubix cube
(The kind she can never solve)
(Which, come to think of it, is all of them)
And sits on the dusty floor
Duvets gathered around her
And focuses all herself onto the Rubix cube
And waits, and waits, and waits
Whilst 16 identical cats and one new kitten
Explore the space around her
Disappearing into portals she's opened before
But the kind she can't go into herself
Because she's stuck here
In her blankets
Ruling over a car park
Blake snorted disdainfully at the apparent poem. Its form was almost as scrappy as the paper it was written on. And, despite the recent interaction with his brother, he couldn't imagine who Kit was writing about - that this was the 'she' he alluded to in their last meet up. He aimed at the nearest bin, and chucked the trash away, returning to his trek to the kitchen to make Amber her morning tea.
Half way across town, Kit woke up with a fountain pen stuck to the side of his face, and three - no, four - pieces of paper scrunched up into balls in his hands. Faintly, he remembered writing something about someone, but, as always, had decided against posting it. He never wanted to display the way he chose to communicate, but something about writing made him feel less empty inside. He watched Peaches stride across the room, nuzzle his cheek, and bother the pen off his cheek. The kitten was right. Best to keep it to himself.

« Kit's Brotherhood | Hub | Kit's Horror Hospital of Horror»


"…This time, it really is the end of the world," Kit mumbled shakily down the phone. "This time, I promise. There's zombies everywhere, and I don't have a gun. Blake, I…" He hesitated, stumbling over his words as he thought of what he was asking, "…need you."
It was cold, outside. The wind was bitter and biting – a promise of winter on the way. Kit didn't like being in the public view, but his flat wasn't safe anymore. The Duvet Queen had taken up residence, and was quietly pulling cat after cat from a portal that had appeared in his disorganised living room. And Kit was allergic.
Outside offered some relief, but few people had a normal face anymore. They were mauled, disfigured, silently begging for brains. Maybe they weren't saying anything, but he knew what they wanted. Brains. His, maybe. Though his thoughts were cancerous, his brain was infected, it was stained with broken thoughts and buried memories. Kit suddenly realised the phone against his ear had gone silent. But with the silence came a promise – Blake was coming. Blake would help him fight against the zombies, and maybe even evict the Duvet Queen, the alien creature who could no longer read words that came from any sort of authority.
By the time Blake came up in his car, tires squealing, most of the zombies had gone, and Kit could breathe again. But seeing Blake was still a relief, like it always was. Blake climbed out of his smart, but practical, car, and glowered at his brother.
"Zombies, huh." He stated, flatly.
"Yes. No. Yes. But they're gone now." Kit reassured. Or tried to reassure. His voice was trembling, and so was his body. Everything was sore, which happened if one stood outside, staring at nothing, for many hours. He felt a sharp pang in his lower back that reminded him of an injury he had gotten when he fell off his moped many years ago, in an overexcited reaction to seeing a rainbow. The pain came first, then the opiates, then addiction, and then… Bloom. Bloom had come next, in all her beauty. But Kit had been out for a while now, avoiding the alleyway where tongues and flashlights waited to pounce.
"Fine. Let's go inside." Blake stated, staying put, knowing better than to approach his brother when his whole body seemed to be trembling with electricity.
"No! Shit. No." Kit stated, firmly. "…We can't." 'And I can't tell you why.' His brain concluded, clumsily.
Blake didn't question anything anymore. He didn't want to know which delusion was preventing his brother from going inside.
"…Don't worry. It's nothing that's going to get me detained." Kit muttered, his voice sounding almost normal as his body twitched outside of his control. Bloom withdrawal was a hard trek, after all. "Not like the seven-year mirror sentence." He concluded, after a moment, as he started walking – leading the way to no-where.
Blake followed, keeping a respectful distance, watching his brother's back – literally as well as figuratively. After a moment, he dared to speak again.
"I hate to break it to you, Kit. But you don't get a seven-year prison sentence for breaking a mirror."
Kit stopped in his tracks.
"Wait, what?" He mumbled around an unlit cigarette. The wind kept blowing out his lighter. Should have kept the old one that seemed to never seemed to go out.
"Yeah. Sorry buddy, you're getting curses and crimes confused. You spent seven-years in prison for breaking a mirror…"
He motioned Kit to finally keep walking.
"Over a toddler's head," he concluded.
Kit looked momentarily confused, then shrugged.
"Wait, you heard about that?"
"You gave my number to the prison guards. Or, should I say guardias de prisiones. So, yeah, I heard about it. In Spanish."
"Huh," Kit mumbled, then let out a noise of triumph as his cigarette was lit.
"When they told me about it, trying to get my Euros, y'know, I told them… I mean, in Spanish, I said. 'A poor innocent mirror?! Fuck him!'" Blake spat on the ground. It was exaggerated, it was humouring his brother – but at the same time, Blake was thinking about how he could never let Kit near his own son.
"Hm. Well, every day is a journey!"
"Yeah, every day. You were there for a day! Look, we all been in a k-hole, but the party has to stop at some point."
"And that point is… mirror smashing?"
"That's probably the point beyond the point."
"Mmm." Kit mumbled, non-committedly. "Well, I still don't get why a mirror would get upset enough to have me locked up."
They walked in the drizzle for a while. If anyone saw the fresh sutures on Kit's arms, they blanched or blushed and looked away, suddenly aware they were trespassing on something painfully private.
Blake didn't ask. He didn't trust the answer, and never could.
Eventually, they stopped in a small green area that couldn't be quite called a park. Kit lead them to sit on a damp bench and Blake didn't complain. He was just thinking about how long he had to spend with Kit for it to be considered okay – for anything that happened afterwards to not be his responsibility. Although with both their parents gone, Blake couldn't help but feel some sense of responsibility to his younger brother. Kit wouldn't even look out for himself, and no-one would look out for him. But still, something needed to be said when it was apparent Kit was more on this planet than his own.
"Look, Kit. I've got a wife who's addicted to social media, and a goddamn mouth to feed on the way. Soon, I'm not going have time for your shit. Soon, no-one's going to have time for your shit."
Despite the apparent harshness of the words themselves, what Blake said lacked the venom it needed. Instead, he just sounded tired, and despondent.
'Despondent,' Kit thought to himself, 'a word used by survivors of suicide.' He came up with his own definition that no dictionary would ever use. Absently, he hoped Blake wouldn't kill himself. He couldn't think what to say at his wake, and what he would want to tell him after he was gone that he couldn't tell him now, with his muddled thoughts and apparent delusions.
"I know," was what Kit said instead, like he always did. The repeating pattern of his brother swearing he wouldn't be able to respond to his phone calls – and the repeating pattern of him pretending he understood when he was many kilometres away from being close to understanding.
In the absence of words, Kit placed two cigarettes in his mouth and lit them. After a second, he thought to offer one to his brother, who took it wordlessly. They both just stared into the trees in silence whilst smoke gathered around them.
"You smoke too much," Blake finally said, as his cigarette nearly burnt itself out.
"…No such thing as 'too much' unless it kills you," Kit muttered in distant reply.
Blake looked at his watch. It had only been nearly 20 minutes. It felt like hours had stretched distantly between them. But really, he should get home soon. Amber was only going to be patient for so long, and, heavily gravid in her last month of pregnancy, her mood was growing short as her discomfort grew more.
"Is it…" Blake thought for the right word, "…okay for you to go home now, do you think? I have to get milk before I go home, and the shops are nearly closed."
Maybe it was a Sunday. Kit blinked, stubbing the cigarette out on the bench. He had a dull awareness of days passing, but rarely registered their names. If the shops were closing whilst the sun wasn't nearly set, it was probably Sunday. Probably.
"…Yeah. I think. She'll be gone by now." Kit concluded, after a moment of dull thought. The cats and their cloned kittens would hang around for a while, but he didn't have to stumble over the girl in his living room.
Blake didn't ask who she was. He doubted it was a bedfellow, with Kit's history, and decided it was much more likely to be a delusion who had chased him out of the house in the first place.
By the time Blake had walked Kit home and followed him the three stories to his flat, he clocked in an hour with his brother. Who could argue that an hour was too short a time? Who could argue that, if anything were to happen when he left, it was somehow Blake's fault?
Kit let him in, after a moment of hesitating. Blake noted him staring at the floor, eyes tracking something that wasn't there. At least not for him. What was there for Kit was another question. He trailed him into the conjoined kitchen/living room, and watched Kit slump heavily into the only armchair he had. He watched Kit look to the window, wide open, the windowsill slightly damp from the drizzly rain. Blake was about to speak, when Kit got there first, his words softer than usual.
“We should close the window,”
“Why?”
“Because I don't want to jump out of it.”
Blake approached the window, and closed it with a gentle thump. After a hesitant moment, he retrieved the key hanging nearby, and locked the window. The key ended up in his pocket. Kit hadn't noticed, still staring at the spot where there had once been a Kit-sized gap, an empty space calling for him to crawl onto the windowsill and… Blake couldn't think on it any further.
"I've got to go," he said instead. Kit turned his head, watched something on the floor, then looked up at Blake.
"Of course," he said, simply. Blake always had to go. Blake had a job. Blake had a wife. Blake had a baby on the way. Above all, Blake had a life.
"Have you… got food in?" Blake asked absently, concentrating far more on retrieving his car keys from his jacket pocket.
"Sure," Kit muttered, with equal absence and enthusiasm. Another pattern. A question, and a lie in response. Their relationship was built on intense dependence, followed by simple lies.
"…Okay then." Blake said, with a tone of finality. "Well. You have my number. Uh. …I'll tell Amber you said hi."
Of course, the woman he had only met two times, before the child was a twinkle in Blake's eye. The woman that Kit couldn't care less about, when he had someone like the Duvet Queen visit him.
"Sure. Okay. 'Bye." Kit said, not bothering to stand. Blake nodded once, then walked the short distance to the front door, letting himself out. The door shut behind him with an echoing thud, a final curtain drop on their relationship.
Brotherhood. It was rarely an easy ride. Kit closed his eyes as he felt a cloned kitten climb onto his lap. Time to try and sleep. Time to try and escape all this.

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