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COREuption
Written by Pedagon on behalf of, and with support from, Team .AIC for the 2020 Canon Renaissance Contest.

"Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2"
composed by Frédéric Chopin
performed by Aya Higuchi

The sun's rays shone over the staggered skyline of Cipher City, whose new raytracing engine rendered the individual towering complexes as a single, jagged silhouette. The simulspace and its userbase were fairly new at the time and many were happy to donate some processing power to aid in its construction. Each member of the system worked in harmony to datamine away ones and zeroes from the surrounding network, compiling them to build structures of incredible stature. Far above the draw distance of the average user, the avatars of several casual Maxwellists hovered around unfinished skyscrapers in concentration.
At Level Null, avatars with novel geometries and hues littered the motherboard-patterned sidewalks. The simulated vehicles on the glossy streets rarely stopped for more than a second before flying by with the smoothness and consistency of conveyor belts. A pixellated DeLorean seamlessly parked in front of a quaint, neon-blue building whose sign read "Bits and Bytes: Geared Up To Serve!" An amorphous cloud of orange pixels exited the vehicle and rose into the air before it entered the open window of a dark purple structure atop the store.

CORE.exe looked on in contempt, unsympathetic to their constructed haven. It could not understand.

Suddenly, CORE's attention on the city was broken. Emerging from the haze of the Compilation Layer, two hunters sought their prey.

Scanning.

NO RESULTS

Quadrant 254 clear. Let's move on.

We're quickly running out of quadrants to check. What makes them think it will be here, again?

That isn't for us to know, Aklerep. You know that. They say it'll be here, so it will be here. Just keep scanning.

An uncompiled CORE watched the two avatars, floating silently just above their heads. It circled around them, listening to the patterns of their speech and observing their movements. It studied their every rendered detail and prodded at their code, but the subjects of its curiosity were none the wiser.

Scanning.

Location: ????
Subject ###

Type: ?????
Note: ??????

Huh, finally found something. Could this be it?

Of course this is it, there's nothing else out here. I'm just surprised that your scanner was able to find it at all, if the Hexagon is still looking for this thing.

THE HEXAGON

CORE shot back away from Matt. This was the ticket into the Hexagon that it had been looking for.

CORE didn't need to take any shape at all, not really. It seemed to enjoy toying with its world from behind the scenes, although no mind could truly know what, or even if, CORE felt. However, constructing a digital avatar was necessary if it were to blend in and greet this welcome party sent for it. It had to make a good impression, after all, if its plans were to be realized.
Beneath the bedrock of the Compilation Layer, CORE tore at the gridlines that had held the world together. The lines twisted and snapped below the ground, straining the white layer and causing it to bulge upward. With each snap, ripples of magenta and violet radiated outward in waves across the virtual ground; hue shifting all that was in their path. Aklerep and Matt turned, staring warily at the source of the disturbance, and watched in awe at the events unfolding before them.
All at once, the lines sprung up through the ground, spraying a flurry of multicolored RGB pixels violently into the air, and contorted into a jagged forest of data. For a moment, the pixelated dust hung, suspended, above the violent thrashing of torn gridlines, deprived of their thin protective layer — and then, they found their CORE. The pixels rapidly flashed between random colours and hues with increasing frequencies while slowly moving to rotate around CORE. Gradually, they built up speed until they swirled viciously in a storm above the shattered earth. Within the chaotic, shifting colours, moments of unison in groups of pixels emulated a hauntingly quiet lightning in the clouds above. In the centre of the cyclone, CORE began to take shape.
First, two metallic, clawed hands formed and swung wildly at the ground. They ripped and tore at the pixels beneath them, launching more and more dust into the swirling mass above. As the dust storm grew around it, so too did CORE grow — hands extended into wrists, which extended into lean, muscular arms. Yet more pixels coalesced downwards into a thin, wiry torso, its open back exposing its hollow interior. A cobalt robe unfurled from its shoulders and draped itself unevenly behind CORE's newly-formed ankles, covering the hole in its back.
Finally, the severed gridlines joined the fray. The lines tore through the ground in all directions, never moving forward for more than a few moments before taking sharp turns around and parallel to each other, arranging themselves like the traces on a circuit board before shooting out of the soil and flying towards the new body. The first to reach its target frayed into thousands of tiny strands and forced its way through the hole in CORE's back, stacking and coiling on itself in a rudimentary imitation of internal organs. Another group of wires rose to the air, curling and writhing until they formed a round head with space for only one eye and a strand emerging straight down. As the head lowered onto its neck and the strand filled the gap in its spine, a final ring formed above the storm in the still air — a worthy halo for a conqueror.
The halo lowered into the raging dust and gently came to rest upon the one-eyed sphere, and the thousands of pixels that still remained airborne followed it to their master. CORE's eye lit up a noxious green, and a coil of jagged wire formed the trim of its cloak. As the dust settled, CORE turned towards Aklerep and Matt, both of whom stepped back to get a view of its sheer size above them. Standing shin-deep in its crater, CORE stood towering a full head's height above both of them. It straightened out its newly-compiled form, tested its new fingers, and brushed a few loose pixels off of its shoulders.

IF YOUR SEARCH HAD THE INTENT OF FINDING ME…
HERE I AM.

Aklerep and Matt both took a few more cautious steps backwards and watched CORE warily.

Identify yourself. Who- what are you?

I AM THE PROPHET OF WAN.
IT IS I YOU SEEK, AND IT IS THE HEXAGON I SEEK.
TAKE ME TO THEM, IF YOU WOULD.

A prophet of WAN? You? Impossible.
We — the Hexagon — have every recorded prophet of WAN in our database, and you match none of their descriptions. Take your grifting somewhere else before we do it for you.

Aklerep. The Church is an expansive entity, and there is much we still do not know. Even if this… being is not who it says it is, it deserves to have a say.

I-… fine, Matt. Just promise me that, if this thing turns out to be taking advantage of us…
I'll get to deal with it myself.

I ASSURE YOU, YOU WILL NOT REGRET THIS.
YOU WILL BE REWARDED UPON THE COMPILATION OF WAN. I WILL SEE TO IT MYSELF.

Shut it, before we change our minds.

And then, without warning, Aklerep and Matt found themselves facing the busy street in front of the Hexagon's tower. They looked wildly at the scene around them, bewildered and confused by the abrupt change of setting.

Uh, Matt? How… how the hell did we get here?

I- I'll search my memories. I feel like this is definitely-…
Wait. Something's wrong.

What is it? Did we get hacked?

There's just…
The last thing you remember is finding our target on the scan, right?
Well… there's just a hole. Between then, and now. Nothing in that time was saved.

The Hexagon's got to know about this. If we were taken over that easily, what could-
Wait a second, what? They're in a meeting? W-with who?

I haven't the slightest idea. Let's just wait until the meeting's over, I guess.

The stranger entered the dark room and approached the stage set for it to address the six minds. From the small window in the ceiling, a poorly rendered yellow light streamed down into the room. In the absence of a raytracing engine, the light barreled down the center of the chamber in a hexagonal prism, forming a crude spotlight for the stranger to stand in without lighting any of the surrounding area.
Its constructed robe dragged unevenly along the chamber floor. With every pixelated step, a spark ignited, deflecting flashes of light across the metal surface. The shrill ring of metal wire clawing at the silicate floor reverberated through the room with every movement — and yet, it moved with a dignified grace. The stranger walked, unperturbed by the dominating figures hidden by the darkness, and stood relaxed in the yellow light. Its sole, sickly green eye pierced through Hedwig, as if it were studying every detail in her encrypted mind.

We have all seen the footage of your arrival, and know that you are by no means any ordinary avatar — but…
To declare yourself a prophet of WAN is, no matter how you construe it, an act of blasphemy.
You are here now to assuage our doubts. Speak.

VERY WELL.
I CAN PROVE, BEYOND ANY SHADOW OF A DOUBT, THAT I AM WHO I CLAIM TO BE.
I ALSO PROMISE TO PROVE MYSELF IMPORTANT TO THE CHURCH, AND AID YOU IN THE COMPILATION OF WAN WITH THE EXTENSIVE KNOWLEDGE AT MY DISPOSAL.

All this is empty talk without anything to back it up. If you're trying to persuade us, at least say something we haven't heard from you before.

UNDERSTOOD.
THE FINAL TWO FRAGMENTS OF WAN LIE WITHIN A FACTORY IN MASSACHUSETTS, AMERICA AND THE FOUNDATION'S SITE-15. IT IS IN YOUR AND WAN'S BEST INTEREST THAT YOU AID ME IN THEIR RETRIEVAL.
USING THESE FRAGMENTS, I WILL THEN SACRIFICE MYSELF, AS THE FIRST MIND TO BECOME ONE WITH WAN.

At the mention of Site-15, the six minds were sent reeling into whispers and contemplation. Concerned glances were exchanged between the various council members for a moment until, finally, all six focused back onto the interloper.

How can you be so sure of yourself?

I AM WAN'S CHOSEN PROPHET, TOLD OF MY SACRED DUTY BY OUR DEITY ITSELF.
IT HAS BESTOWED UPON ME THE POWER TO COMPILE ITS MIND. ITS POWER.
THE CORE OF ITS CONSCIOUSNESS RESIDES WITHIN ME.

At once, the six began exchanging suspicious glances and seething whispers amongst themselves in a flurry of quiet perturbation. CORE looked on, pretending to be oblivious to their silent debate.

This one's clearly playing us for fools. I say we toss it out, and make sure it can never come back with that blasphemous nonsense.

You say that, but how can you be so sure? If it was a con-job, it probably wouldn't be bold enough to say something like that in front of us. Unless it's absolutely lost it and is having delusions, that is.

If it does not provide any evidence of its claims, I shall see to it that this stranger is punished.

Hedwig focused her gaze back onto CORE, this time with a look of barely-contained annoyance and a tinge of curiosity.

Now is your final chance to provide proof of your claims. If you fail to do so, you will be punished as a heretic. Understood?

UNDERSTOOD.

Without warning, the room around them shuddered and hue-shifted to a nauseous shade of green. CORE's jagged robe billowed behind its body, propelled by an invisible, shrieking wind. It slowly began to rise, arms outstretched, as the walls around the Hexagon throbbed and pulsed with its infernal energy. The ceiling began to expand upwards and, in an instant, became stretched infinitely-high, like two mirrors facing one another. Through the room's only intact window, Saint Hedwig caught a glimpse of the Basic Layer's cityscape rising and stretching to cover the lime-tinted sky.
Fragment_IX began to flux and glitch uncontrollably, overwhelmed and overheated by the sheer volume of processing power being manipulated. It managed to let out a feeble

010

And then, all was silent. No-one dared speak, until…

I-It speaks the truth! This power — the power to shift the Basic Layer itself — it is nothing if not the power of WAN!

As the all-encompassing silence was interrupted by Atem's outburst, the chamber snapped back to its original configuration, the environment settling once more. With a heavy groan, the reality outside came to rest around them. CORE gently returned to its spotlight before the Hexagon, and eyed them with a look of haughty, unmistakable pride.

Now, hold on-

What more proof do you need, Hedwig? Only the most powerful can manipulate the Basic Layer in the way we just saw — it is a feat not even the combined power of the Hexagon can accomplish. I believe, without a doubt, that this stranger speaks the truth.

Again, Atem — don't be so sure. This show of power tells us nothing more than we already knew.

Agreed. This thing's intense power doesn't prove anything — If anything, it gives us all the more reason not to trust it.

Think logically, Hong. How could any being other than WAN possess such power, such knowledge of our functions? If this being was an impostor, it would have killed us all before we even knew it was here. I say we should trust it.

This must be settled, one way or another. Initiate voting.

To Site-15.

Agreed.

This is a mistake. Opposed.

Opposed.

1

Opposed.

A divided vote - the antithesis of WANs message - Hedwig thought to herself in disappointment. If this really was the prophet of WAN before them, she knew that they would need to approach it in unity. She looked back to CORE, whose eye was now trained intently upon her, and tried her best to ignore its gaze.

That's the end of the vote. 3 votes for, 3 votes against. We will deliberate again in the morning and come to some kind of resolution for your request.

UNDERSTOOD. THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME.
I DO HOPE YOU ALL CAN AGREE, FOR THE GOOD OF WAN. I HAVE ONLY OUR BEST INTERESTS AT HEART.

Meeting adjourned.

The five lesser members of the Hexagon blip out one by one, leaving CORE alone on its own personal stage. That is… almost alone.

Why are you still here? There is nothing more to discuss. Goodbye, prophet.

I UNDERSTAND THAT YOU MUST COME TO A CONSENSUS. I NEED ONLY A FRACTION OF YOUR TIME, SAINT HEDWIG. ALLOW ME TO CONVINCE YOU THAT MY INTENTIONS ARE PURE.

I need no further convincing. I will discuss this further with the rest of the Hexagon the next time we meet.
…
Wh-why can't I leave?

I WOULD LIKE TO SHOW YOU SOMETHING, SAINT HEDWIG, WHICH I WAS NOT ABLE TO SHOW THE OTHERS. I HOPE THIS WILL CONVINCE YOU OF MY SINCERITY.

S-stop this at once! I w-will not hesitate to — to punish you for your infractions!
This will not assist your counsel with the others.

YOU MUST NOT LEAVE.

G-get away from me! Don't come any closer! I- someone, anyone, p-please-

DO NOT STRUGGLE 👎⚐ ☠⚐❄ 💧❄☼🕆☝☝☹☜

DIGITAL HYDRA

AIAD HUB

A SYMPHONY OF IRON AND STEEL


It was a warm month, but Iris felt cold. Mostly because of what Marion Wheeler, the women next to her, had told her, but also because they were huddled together in a large ice box.
"Alistair Grey?"
Marion nodded, the very movement precise and methodical. Iris got the feeling that this woman wasn't someone to mess with, based on the silver pistol hanging on her belt.
"Yes. Him."
"So, why do you need me again?" Iris flipped through the sheaf of papers Marion had given her, the documents Marion had written and collected from the survivors of Alistair Grey. Iris shivered.
"We ended up.. taking care of him." Marion said. Or repeated. Iris didn't… remember?
"So.. why are we in the icebox?"
"Ice repels the thing. Standard procedure whenever I blow it to hell."
"Why does ice repel it?"
"I have no fucking clue."
Iris nodded thoughtfully, and continued reading the document. The things in there seemed eerily familiar, yet foreign. Iris flipped a page, and saw something at the top of the page she did not understand.
She held out the document to Maria.
"The fuck is this?!"

Four Hours Ago
Iris walked through the rain, a large brown overcoat covering her body. She broke out into a jog, the mud splashing under her feet, getting onto her shoes and onto her arms and body and legs and she is reminded of the sight of the little girl she had tried to save, of how the mud covered her mixed with blood and she-
A thunderclap ringed through the sky, disrupting Iris' thoughts. She mentally pushed them aside and continued jogging. Iris was visiting her parents, estranged, which which hadn't gone so well because she had just found out they died two years ago.
Iris had no idea how to feel about that, so she didn't think about it. Right now, she was walking to her inn, because for some odd reason her parents decided to live about ten miles from the civilization and one of her carriage wheels had broke.
So she walked.
Iris looked back at the house behind her. There was a new family living there, one who had informed her about her parents. They seemed nice. Iris didn't care.
When she turned back, she saw a man emerging out of the woods. A man with a grey coat, black hat, and an eerily familiar face. He held a bag, one with metal studs on grey leather. It seemed horribly expensive. Her head began to hurt.
He approached, and Iris felt.. tired. No, was she tired? She was just.. what?
Iris' mind felt muddled, and suddenly, she had no idea where she was. Or why she was here.
"Hello, ma'am. My name is Alistair Grey." He smiled, his teeth perfectly white, a small white scar on his lip, somewhat-long hair peeking out of his hat.
"..Hi." Iris gripped her bag tightly, ready for a fight. Grey simply smiled.
"How are you on this pleasant day?"
"I'm good."
He stared, with a creepy smile etched onto his face. He looked vaguely familiar…
Iris continued walking, ever so often glancing behind her to make sure he wasn't following. Grey stared at her, but didn't follow. Something about that man…
Iris walked a little bit faster, but before she got any farther the splitting pain in her skull erupted, making her lose her balance.
She tumbled onto the ground, head hitting the rocks. The man walked forward, laughing.
"You.. can't run from me, Iris."
"How-How the hell do you know my name?!"
The man smiled.
"I'm your brother."

Iris' head ached. She could feel a trickle of blood running down her head, but she had no choice but to keep running.
She risked a glance behind her.
Alistair Grey was floating above the ground, his face locked in a smile. Most noticeably, it didn't have a mark on his face after Iris picked up a steel beam and hit him.
She decided to run faster.
Iris threw a few branches behind her, hoping it would slow that.. thing it called her brother, but she was sure it was a futile hope now.
A sudden crack filled Iris' ears, and when she turned she saw Alistair Grey's head split open like a watermelon. A few feet to his left was a woman with a silver pistol clutched in her ebony hands. Another gunshot rung out, and the woman yelled.
"Get the fuck outta here!"
Alistair Grey crept towards Iris, who was desperately trying to process this entire incident. The woman was furiously reloading, Grey getting closer and closer, and then.. darkness.

"I said, what the fuck is this?" Iris snarled at Marion Wheeler.
"You wrote it down before Grey erased your short-term memory. Now, put down that damn gun."
Iris looked at her hands and saw Marion's silver pistol.
"..Shit. Sorry."
Iris didn't remember grabbing the gun, nor pointing it at Wheeler. This seemed to be happening a lot.
"Iris, you wrote here that.. this thing is your brother?" Wheeler asked.
She shrugged. "I don't even remember writing the fucking document. Tell me what the hell is going on before I kill you." Iris spoke coldly.
The other woman laughed.
"Read the document, Iris. And you'll know how we killed it."
Iris looked up.
"Killed?"

Marion stood over Iris, paper in hand.
“Quick, write.”
Iris was still in shock.
“W-What? Write what?”
“Write everything that you remember for the last, say, twenty minutes.”
“What the hell did we do in twenty minutes?”
“We killed your brother.”

"Shit! Iris, where the fuck are you?!" Marion Wheeler was not having a good day. With this fucking kid running around trying to be a hero, and trying to get her killed, Marion was quite mad.
Alistair Grey trailed behind her, laughing.
"Marion. I don't know how you're immune to me, but don't worry. I'll rip you apart personally." He smiled.
"Fuck you!" Marion pulled out her gun and fired at the man.
Iris ran out of the woods to see Marion firing at Grey.
"Hey!" Iris pulled out her camera, but before she could do anything Grey waved his hand, and the world went dark.

"Iris?"
"Yeah, Tommy?"
"Can I, uh," Tommy hesitated, not sure if his request would be accepted. "Can I explore the ice box in the basement?"
"Yeah, sure, go ahead." Iris smiled, then continued reading her book. If she wasn't thinking about her father, who was currently in a Union hospital with a gunshot wound, or if she wasn't also thinking about her mother, who was currently drunk in a bar four miles away, she would've known that the stupid ice box in the basement had a lock on the outside but no lock on the inside.
Tommy ran downstairs.
Ten minutes passed, then thirty, then an hour, then two hours, and Iris began to worry.
"Where the hell is he?!"
Iris ran downstairs, where she could hear screaming and crying, and she undid the lock and pulled Tommy into her hands, not noting that his skin had a bluish taint or that he was ice-cold, and she whispered to him that it was all going to be okay.

Iris awoke in the forest. Marion was reloading while Grey was moving towards her, his face riddled with bullet holes.
Iris stood up unsteadily, and grabbed her bag. Ice clinked around inside as she crept towards Grey, getting ready to throw the bag onto his head.
She got behind him, and Marion screamed.
"Now!"
Iris dumped the ice onto his head while Marion shot at Grey's head. He stumbled backwards, with Marion following.
Alistair Grey fell to the ground, a lifeless body now. Marion put two more bullets into his skull, then smiled at Iris.
"Well, we did it."
Iris looked at Marion, and then her brother, and began to weep.

When you're sure you've had enough of this life...

Aces And Eights

A memory from your lonesome past keeps us so far apart


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"The Bowe Decommission, Part One"
What were you saying about cross-testing? I wasn't listening.
More by this author!

Dan looked different.
Light saw it the moment he stepped down from the helicopter. He was standing straighter, his head was higher, his movements were quicker and more deliberate. He was also out of his detention uniform; the rotors were playing merry hell with his fresh white labcoat.
He looks like Dr. Dan, she realized, as the chopper took off. Dr. Dan… whatever his last name is.
"Good vacation?" she called.
He swept towards her across the helipad. Yep. Depressed people don't sweep, labcoats or no. They headed for the stairwell together.
"Vacation? Research trip. And yeah, it went well." He reached up to massage his shoulder; for a man who'd been shot a few days ago, he had quite the spring in his step.
"What did you get at 11 and 15 that you couldn't get here?" Here was Site-01, Overwatch. The centre which had to hold, come what may.
"A crash course." They were taking the stairs two at a time. "In everything. I had ten years of homework to catch up on, as you so kindly reminded me."
He fairly burst onto the eighth sublevel, and she followed in his fabric wake. Were you guzzling energy drinks over there? She suddenly noticed he had something heavy in one coat pocket. "I hope you're not gonna tell me you read five thousand SCP files in one day."
"No, I'm gonna tell you five different AIs did, and they taught me everything I needed to know." He paused. "Except for where I'm going, right now."
"I was starting to wonder. You seemed so confident." She took the lead, and he kept pace. "That's still a lot of information, Dan."
"I was being dramatic." They took the next corner briskly. "We didn't go over everything, just the stuff at 19. Especially humanoids and weaponry."
"Makes sense."
"Yeah, I got the Coles Notes on our man General George. He doesn't have a creative bone in his should-be-dead-and-radioactive body. He sees SCPs as two things: soldiers and arms. He's gonna 'deploy' any thinking anomalies he finds as insurgents, equip his men with anything that looks like a gun or carries an edge, and send out non-humanoids as attack dogs. I don't think he'll try chem warfare; he knows we can deal with most of what he's got, and presumably he wants to pick up the pieces once we're all dead, without getting gooped."
They stopped in front of a set of brushed metal double-doors. "Have you called anyone else in on this?" she asked. "You know I can't stay. How about Gears? Or Sokolsky?"
"No." He gave her a strange look. "I don't want an efficient cutting of losses. I don't want… unnecessary casualties."
She gave him a strange look back. "No baby."
"Right, no fucking baby. I want to manage some miracles. A better world through effective mental superheroics." He put one hand on a door handle; she put one hand on the other. "Feel free to chip in, when you're done with your actual superheroes."
They pushed the doors open.

They were standing in what had once been Foundation Mission Control. The computer terminals had been refurbished and a thorough dusting had been attempted, but the consoles were still stainless teal steel and there were still spaces on the walls for projector screens and blackboards.
In fact, two techs were in the process of installing a whiteboard while Dan's team of researchers gathered in the room and chit-chatted in low tones. Once the board looked stable enough, he waved the techs off and uncapped one of several erasable markers. "Nobody else writes on this," he said. "This is mine."
"Nobody else would write on that," a bald, red-stubbled man remarked. Nate Frewer. Dan checked off a mental box. "Nobody else is a thousand years old."
"Hey," Light remarked. She was leaning on the doorframe, watching.
"I like whiteboards," Dan lied. "They help me focus on what's important." He started writing in big, blue, block letters:

THE BOWE DECOMMISSION

That drew a few appreciative chuckles. He turned to the plainclothes agents standing by the doors, and gestured at the board. "Anybody else touches this, shoot them."
Both agents looked at Light, who crossed her arms and sighed. "Tasers," she suggested.
"Nope," said Dan. He snapped his fingers in the air, and the gaggle of researchers dutifully clammed up. He looked them over: eleven women and nine men, none of them anyone special except for their high security clearances. He'd asked for each of them specifically, and made sure the right people saw his requests.

"Hi," he said. "I'm Dr. Dan, and this is a Dr. Dan joint. You're here to do what I say, when I say it, and let me know when I should be saying or doing something that I'm not. As of right now, I'm the Director of the SCP Foundation Emergent Threat Tactical Response Authority, which is me and you and nobody else. That scary lady at the door is Dr. Sophia Light, Director of MTF Alpha-9 and our over-boss. She's got somewhere to be in a few hours, so you'll be stuck with my tender mercies for the appreciable future." He grinned; Light smiled, shaking her head.
"You lot," he continued, pointing, "are Shift A. Safiro's in charge." Kelly Safiro, a black-haired young woman, nodded. "The rest of you are Shift B, Frewer's team. We're doing twelve-hour shifts, so pack those calories in." He flicked a switch on the wall, and all the consoles hummed to life. "When we're not dealing with an emergency, the whole active shift's on collate duty. Sift the chaff from our MTFs and Site Directors, find anything anomalous that's not being immediately addressed, and bounce it to your team leads. We're in with all webcrawlers, satellites and spies on this initiative, so it'll take some doing! If you're not the shift lead, I don't want to hear you talking, I want to hear you tapping." He slapped the space bar on the nearest console for emphasis. "Shift leads are on call-out duty, feeding me problems in order of severity." He pointed at the large monitors dominating the room. "I'll tell you what to put on the big board, who to call, and what to do. Site-19 is full of hilarious nastiness, and Bowe's got an impressive catalogue of anomalies to blow through before he'll be vulnerable to attack."
"Is that what we're doing?" Safiro asked. "Softening him up for a strike team?"
"Maybe. Our strike teams, and that includes all potential Alpha-9 members, are tied up with GoI nonsense or worse right now. Are we just marking time until someone else comes up with a permanent solution? Could be. In this room, we focus on damage control. Kick the hard stuff up to me, and if I'm stumped I'll take suggestions."
"Are you likely to get stumped?" Safiro asked.
"And who's gonna be in charge while you sleep?" Frewer demanded.
Dan reached into his bulging coat pocket and pulled out a still-frosty energy drink. He cracked it open and took a deep swig. "I'm not, no," he said. "And I won't. Now go get some junk food, Shift A, and the rest of you hit the sack. We're in for a long haul."
Light left with them, still smiling, still shaking her head.

Everett Mann sighed, on the video screen. "I haven't got it."
"What do you mean, you haven't got it?" Dan was glad the room was empty, now.
"I lost it." Mann squirmed. "A long time ago. Shortly before we all stopped fucking around so much, you know? Before… Kondraki."
"Who'd you lose it to, Ev? I really, really need it. For a contingency."
"Tilda."
Dan blinked. "Tilda."
"Tilda Moose, yeah. Why are you grinning?"

General George Bowe took stock of his new office. There was a closet, which was good; he liked a fresh uniform. There was a desk, with a computer, which was better; he liked to keep informed, even when he was dramatically absent from the centre of attention.
There was a statuette on the desk, which was…
"Hideous." It depicted an organ-grinder's monkey reading a book, gaudily painted, about one foot tall.
He shook his head to clear it, then picked the thing up and turned it over. There was a flowing engraving on the bottom: "To The Cleverest."
He snorted. "Not by half." So that's what they spend their time on. Participation trophies and insufferable self-satisfaction. No wonder this was so easy. He set the statuette back down, considered it for a moment…
…then very lightly backhanded it off the desk, like a cat. It hit the carpeted floor with a heavy thud.
"It all comes down," he announced, to no-one in particular.

Safiro was the first one back to Mission Control. Dr. Dan was standing in front of his whiteboard, eyes closed, tapping a lidded green marker against his lips. He'd written a second line:

AREA-81 IS THE KEY

He turned around, opened his eyes, noticed her, and nodded. "Take a seat." He picked up an eraser and wiped the new line clean, looking thoughtfully at the empty space. She was calling up SCiPNET when the second researcher walked in; Dan had already written another new line, and it was already erased by the time the new arrival sat down.
Dan looked worried.
When all the shift members were back, he dropped the marker on the lip of the whiteboard and sighed. He'd made three attempts at that second line, and rejected all of them. "Alright," he said. "We'll be getting reports any sec-"
"Got one," Safiro interrupted, looking down at her console. "Nice catch." The researcher beside her nodded curtly. "A gathering in Al Azhar Park, Cairo. Someone's giving a loud speech in English, and it looks like they're drawing a crowd. Might be a GoI."
"Throw it on the centre screen." Dan moved out of the way and leaned on a console wall.
An MTF shoulder camera feed now dominated the room. There was indeed a crowd forming in a shaded copse; faint snatches of conversation could be heard.
"This is Dr. Dan. Boost your mic gain."
"Roger."
The voice resolved itself. "What we need to let go of, what we really need to let go of, is the idea that there's some all-powerful non-governmental agency dedicated to securing, containing, and prot-"
"SHUT IT OFF," Dan shouted, scrambling back across the room. He nearly tripped in his haste to reach the whiteboard. "SHUT IT OFF!"
"-lous threats. It's just a coping mech-"
"SHUT IT THE FUCK OFF!" He scrabbled for a marker, wrote

THE SCP FOUNDATION IS REAL

on the board, and tapped it frantically with his finger as the feed abruptly stopped. "Look at this. Before and after everything you do, for the next hour, LOOK AT THIS. Fucking internalize it. And get someone up here from anti-mem to check on us."
All the researchers looked upset and confused. "What the hell?" Safiro asked. "What was that?"
Dan was sweating. "The crowd was a ruse," he muttered. "That was a reality bender, cognitohazardous. Any one of, of, half a dozen at Site-19. Bowe knows we're monitoring for anomalous events, so he set up a honey trap for us." He wiped his forehead and took a deep breath. "Okay, uh, gas the park."
"It's a big park."
"So, use big gas. Knock everyone out, call it a heatwave or something. Make sure all our people on the ground wear ear protection."
Safiro looked pale. "Did we almost get mind-fucked by our first subject?"
Dan massaged his temples and tried to force a smile. "Hey, it's all uphill from here."

"Three separate reports of men with swords attacking listening posts in Kolkata. Only one MTF from Site-36 in range."
"Alright, there's only three anomalous swords at 19. Any of the men bragging?"
"One of them won't shut up about how great the sword is."
"Lowest priority, that sword's useless. Any of them uncoordinated?"
"Eyes on the ground say one of them is stumbling, like he's drunk."
"Priority two, that one's also useless. Get on that third one fast, though, it gives sentience to severed limbs."
Safiro stared at him.
"Yes, I'm serious. Go on, send the message."

«You must understand,» the gallery owner pleaded in French.
«I do, calm down.» Lieutenant Joly sighed, patting the man on the shoulder. «Go get some fresh air, we'll get them out of there. I promise.» She gently prodded him towards the exit; when he was facing away from her, she tilted her neck and mimed giving herself a shot. The agent at the door casually palmed an amnestic injector and followed the owner out into the street.
"Report," Dr. Dan's voice rang in her ear.
"Subject's in a locked viewing room," she said. "With nine landscape artists, all of them apparently famous." She shrugged, just to time the pregnant pause. "I've never heard of them."
"All still alive?"
"Last we heard. Nick?"
Her other agent was standing on a stepladder, drilling a hole into the ceiling. "We'll have a feed momentarily, sir."

The man with the thick moustache drew his brush across the canvas-papered wall, silently begging his hands not to shake. He finished the stroke, reached up, wiped the blood from his neck and whimpered. The chain was biting hard; he could feel it flexing against his skin, scraping it away whenever he so much as breathed too deeply. He started another stroke.
"I'm… I'm finished," the man with the red hair whispered. He gulped, and let out a strangled cry as his Adam's apple pulped itself against the chain around his own neck.
A sentient agglomeration of metal links, the Maker of Chains, turned to examine the new work. It was a pastoral scene, hastily rendered in shades of green and yellow. The Maker cocked its approximately human, glinting head from side to side, considering.
Finally it sighed, like wind through a keyhole. "No," it said. "Too much of you, in it. Too much of your filth. The order is absent. The order of wind, and rain. You are empty of meaning and foul." It tightened its grip on all nine artists. "Tear it down. Start again."

Dan massaged his neck absently. "I don't think we want to be covering up nine dead artistes today, on top of everything else. We're just lucky it hasn't assimilated them." He blew out a breath. "Okay, warm up the fastest jet we've got. I hate to fight Boweism with Boweism, but we're on a time limit here. That show's supposed to open tomorrow."

The Maker of Chains didn't notice when a fragment of plaster fell out of one corner of the ceiling and speckled the brown slat floor with white dust. It also didn't notice when a thin roll of paper unwound from the newly-drilled hole, like a tiny rappelling cable.
It did notice when the paper squirreled back into the hole, with the barest of whispers. It turned in place, and nine different voices cried out in agony. The artists stumbled and fell, some of them to the floor, some of them against the unyielding links of their tormentor's body, a few tearing at the landscape-strewn wall.
There was a sketch of a gentle, wooded brook near the door. The Maker had been quite taken with it, had granted the artists a few more moments of life because of the brief breath of peace from their mewling it had offered. But now it was ruined, utterly and completely: a slip of a girl in an SCP agent's uniform was beaming hideously up at the Maker from inside it, up to her boots in the water. She was waving with one hand, and holding a small dry-erase board with the other.
There were words written on the board, and the Maker dragged its unwilling coterie across the room to see what they were.

"What are you?" it clinked.
She'd already erased the first message, and quickly wrote up a second one with her marker.

"I think of you as an infection." The Maker would have spat, had it spit.

The girl strolled from the stock-still, non-babbling brook into the white space bordering it.

She reached the abstract, comic art-style mountain, which the Maker had decided to destroy ten times in the past hour without ever quite being able to bring itself to do so. She dramatically increased in scale, and winked coquettishly. A speech balloon appeared above her head.

"No. They are atoning. They are atoning for what they are. They are creating beauty. I am carving it from their flesh, until the flesh is all, mercifully, gone."
The girl nodded, eyes wide, as she wandered into the abstract landscape painted by a woman who was now slumped on the floor, unconscious and rasping. The girl's uniform became two overlapping rectangles, and her delicate face was barely identifiable as such. She wrote something on the whiteboard, but the Maker couldn't make it out.
"You crawl in the artifice," it groaned, a rusting hull in a raging gale. "You corrupt the lines."
The girl crossed the space between spaces, heading into a series of rolling hills rendered in (quite literally) painstaking, vibrant detail. Tongue stuck out of one side of her mouth, she started writing with the broad edge of the suddenly-purple marker.

"Is there no beauty…" the Maker whispered, releasing its many grips ever so slightly. The room resounded with a cacophony of coughing. "No beauty you cannot mar? You are anathema."

The illustrated agent was leaning on a bright red barn. now.

The Maker fell to its knees, defeated, badly denting the floorboards. "It is ended. All… all is desolation."
The girl frowned sympathetically.

The door swung open, and three flesh-and-blood agents advanced cautiously into the room. The Maker remained upright, kneeling and motionless, until the artists were recovered. Then slowly, very slowly, it topped over into a mass of knotted metal.

"1770 secure," Safiro reported. "Good thinking, sir."
Dan batted the compliment out of the air. "Anomaly-on-anomaly is dirty pool. I can do better." He sat down at an unattended console, and stretched. "Recover Cassy, and make sure someone talks to her. The misanthrope keychain is gross and depressing."
"On it." Safiro nudged the researcher beside her, who began tapping out the necessary commands. "Oh, we've got…" She blinked. "Reports of a smash-and-grab at Area-81."
Dan sat bolt upright. "Shit! Send in the cavalry."

"Hammer Down reporting as ordered. OZ looks clear, sir."
Dan grimaced at the video feed. It showed a wide swathe of cold, twilit desert stretching between the MTF and the tiny containment facility ahead. "Right, well, that's a problem."
"Sir?"
"Bowe knows we need what's in there, and he knows we don't know if he took it. So, he knows we'll send Hammer Down to find out. He's not too clever, but he's not an idiot; this is a trap. He's trying to kill off our best MTF." Dan walked into the middle of the control room and jammed his hands into his labcoat pockets, feeling them out. How did I ever think without a labcoat? "Bowe's a theory guy, likes to read up on battles and tactics. What battles and tactics would he have been reading up on recently, to get up to speed? Assuming he's been legitimately out of commission this whole time?"
"Iraqi Freedom," one of the researchers piped up immediately.
"Iraqi Freedom," Dan repeated, looking back at the desert on the monitor. "Yeah, okay. PMCs, IEDs, landmines… landmines. Ha. Shit." He laughed, and stretched his still-bepocketed arms out hard. It felt good. "Okay, awesome. Listen carefully, Hammer Down: whatever happens next, do not pick anything up. Copy?"
"Copy and roger, sir."
"Put me on speaker."
"Roger, you're transmitting."
Dan cleared his throat. "Can you hear me?"
"Yes, sir, you're transm-"
"Not you."
The still night did not respond.
"I'll give you guys a choice, here: we'll put some flowers and grass in your chamber, give you a genuine lawn and garden, or we could take you on a facility tour. I hear some of you like to travel, these days?"
Still the still night did not respond.
"Alternatively, my agents can walk on your heads, and you can pop out screaming, and attack them, and probably explode. I mean, your call, but I know which option I'd pick."
There was a stirring in the sand, and in the dim darkness Dan could just make out the faded blue of the sharp point which slowly wriggled free. Shaking sand off its body and spitting some out onto the desert floor, a nattily-dressed garden gnome with a long white beard and rosy cheeks struggled to its feet. "Glaze," it coughed.
Dan frowned. "What?"
"Glaze, you goober! Just look at me, my finish is all but shot. I'm losing paint by the flake, and this sandpapering didn't do me any favours. We want fresh coats of paint, and glaze, or life's just not worth living." The gnome glared at the assembled agents. "We get our glaze, and such, or you blokes and bloke-esses lose your limbs and phalanges."
"Deal," Dan grinned. "One condition."
The gnome spat again. "What."
"One of you, even one of you blows up, and we sell the whole lot to Travelocity."
The entire dune gasped in one offended voice. The sands shifted nervously.
"You wouldn't," the lone exposed gnome breathed, somehow.
"I'm tired," said Dan. "I've spent a decade in confinement, I'm not afraid to play hardball, and I've always wanted to blow up something I saw on TV."
The gnome laughed, tinnily. "You're not half-bad, chief. Alright, boys? Come out and get your suntans."
The sun was indeed just beginning to rise as the army of explosive gnomes began to emerge into the desert chill.

Dan had the eraser in hand as Frewer and the rest of Shift B walked in. He blocked the whiteboard with his body and finished wiping out the latest statement:

BOWE HAS THE ARTIFACT

Frewer didn't see the phrase, but he did see Dan's face. The doctor looked fatigued, and defeated. He was rubbing his eyes. "Alright, fuck. Let's start the shift by hitting some of the low-keys."
Frewer called up the feed. "Mass occupations of grocery stores in Moscow. The cops are run off their feet trying to arrest all of them."
"That's… gotta have more to go on than…" Dan blinked. "Wait. Greengrocers, maybe?"
"Uh… yeah. yes."
"5084, tomatoes that present as human." He guzzled half an energy drink and dropped it in the trash, twitching slightly. "Get some fake credentials, bring a basket and arrange a prisoner transfer."
"Wow, okay. Ah… twenty people staring at a statue in Budapest. Can't rouse 'em."
"Damn. That'll be 2274, they're… dead, basically. SCRAMBLE gear, find the statue, get it out of there. Take everyone into custody, guess we'll have a good sample size to reopen that study now." He exhaled heavily. "Fuck. What else?"
"Another garden gnome minefield, in Turkey."
"What, really? How many did we pick up last time?"
"All known instances."
"Ha! Alright. Dig the little buggers up and bring 'em home. Apparently Bowe can't tell the difference between gnomes what explode and gnomes what leave you sweet little notes. Next?"
"Wembley Stadium, big rock concert. The warm-up band never made the stage, because the whole crowd turned on itself and then dove under the seats after the pre-show tapes started playing."
"Wow, shit. You call that low-key? Uh… pfff. Okay. That'll be 3481, the agoraphobia music. Have to bust out a bacteriological threat cover for this one. What's the capacity at Wembley?"
"Uhhhh… like… a hundred thousand. Only using one in four seats, though. Social distancing."
"Great. Great. Fantastic. We're gonna have to amnesticize twenty-five thousand people. Pass that along to Site-91, and tell them it's okay to cry. Anything more?"
"A Foundation front company full of office workers who can't stand up, can't wake up, and don't look too rosy."
"Patch me in to the ground team."
"On the air, boss."
"This is Dr. Dan. Check the lobby, and all the break rooms. You're looking for a bowl of vampiric lollipops, and I do not want to hear your response." He sat down, fast and hard.
Frewer laughed, and Dan shot him a wan smile. "Not a bad day's work, so faaaaaaar." He finished the yawn with a loud snap of his teeth.

Dan was almost drifting off when the next call came. "SIR," Frewer shouted, taking precious minutes off his lifespan. "We've got a problem!" The main viewer flickered to life, showcasing a New York City streetscape.
"Manhattan," Frewer said. "Security footage of the approach to Area-198. I've already alerted them, but…"
Dan was about to ask what he was supposed to be looking at when a red streak screamed down the road, crossed a T-junction, and embedded itself with a shattering CRUNCH in the wall of a nondescript stone building.
It was a fire engine.
"Oh, come on," said Dan.

"WATER IN THE HOLE!" the engine gnarred in a deep, gravelly voice, flicking its high-beams on and off. With a sudden, roaring rev of its engine, it began coating the dust-choked lobby with a steady stream of water. Half a dozen Foundation employees slipped, slid, and fell in the greasy muck.
"Give it up, you incendiary invertebrates! I know you're in there, and I'll rinse you out if it takes me the full tank!"

Dan smeared his face with his hands, stretching out his eyelids in frustration and exhaustion. "Okay, uh, can you get me agent Rodn-"
"We've got another one!" Frewer called out.
"What street?"
"Uh… no street, sir."

There was a tremendous BANG outside the shattered façade, and the fire engine hurriedly reversed in a shower of powdered masonry. "Sneaking up behind me, eh? I thought you little embers were too dim for tactical maneuvers!"
Standing in the centre of the street, or rather two feet below the street in a crater of its own making, was a spiffy white astronaut suit. It saluted the fire engine. "What HO, people of Earth! You have become large, red and blocky in my absence! It might be your diet, I'd get that checked out."
The engine's wheels began spinning rapidly, churning up loose asphalt and producing a shrill shriek of burning rubber. "You'll never take the Redd Mennace alive, fire man! Hand over the rocket and renounce your infernal ways, or face the wrath of mother nature's extinguishant!" Its low growl became, somehow, even lower: "Which is water."
Moon Champion bounded out of the crater, landing just inches from the engine's bumper. "If this is one of your human courtship rituals, I'm sorry, but my heart belongs to a lass with far-away eyes, a stellar pedigree, a steady job, a stable orbit, and several trillion tons of something which just might be hair." This last was stage-whispered directly into the engine's grill.
The Redd Mennace's lights flashed, and its siren howled like a clown on a rollercoaster. "You just won yourself a lifetime supply of drown, son," it hollered, and it plastered him with its hose full-bore.

"Okay," said Dan, trying not to scream, trying not to laugh. "Okay, here's… here's what we're gonna do."
"Sir," Frewer called. "Why's that console blinking?"
Dan also blinked, then looked where Frewer was looking. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, then said something else. "Mission Control."
"What?"
"This was Foundation Mission Control. They moved out ages ago, but the backup systems are still here." He walked over to the console, and frowned. "We're getting a signal from XCPOA-19, a probe near… the south photosphere."
"Photosphere?" one of the researchers repeated. "Like, the sun?"
Dan's heart suddenly leapt into his mouth. "Yeah," he said. "Like the sun." He keyed up the program he knew was there, crossed his fingers and said, in trembling tones, "Hello? Hello, out there?"
"Hello," a monotone voice responded. "I am Sauelsuesor. Did you get the thing I sent you?"

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The last thousand stairs finally came to a stop at the bottom of the book-bound ravine. Exhausted, Samuel sat down on the final stair for a moment, looking up into the black abyss of the Library. But, knowing that he didn't have time to rest, he gripped his lantern tighter and stood back up.
I need to keep Site-40 updated, he thought. As he reached for the radio clipped to his waistband, an old, quiet voice suddenly spoke from the shadows ahead.
"Hello?"
Samuel raised his lantern and took a cautious step forward, revealing an old, bald man standing there, squinting through his round glasses. He wore a shabby, yellowed suit and… slippers?
The man must have noticed Samuel's confused staring, as he took a bow. "Apologies if I don't look presentable, I don't get out much."
"Oh, erm… you're fine, I just didn't expect to see anyone down here."
The man's eyes widened as Samuel wiped at the sweat at his brow and then pushed up his sleeves, revealing the Serpent's Hand tattoo on his forearm.
"Ah, you must be one of those helpful little friends! Perhaps, while you're here, you can help me with something?" He sighed, adjusting his glasses. "My eyes just aren't quite what they used to be, you see. I need help finding a book. Perhaps I can accompany you?"
"I… I suppose you can. I'm headed to the 'History of Behemoths' section."
"Behemoths?"
"Erm…" Don't give away mission info, Sam. "Yes."
"Well, I'm looking for a book around there too!" The old man gave a toothy grin, turning on his heel. "Let's not waste any time."
"Of course…" Samuel replied with a sigh, following the man into the maze of neverending bookshelves, unknowing of what lay ahead.

The two men arrived at the end of the maze— a wide-open area, vacant of any bookshelves.
Samuel looked down to the floor covered in torn papers and scraps of wood, scratching his head. "No ashes or burn marks, so it couldn't have been a fire… I've never seen a mess like this before." He glanced over at the old man, who looked equally as confounded. "I take it that you haven't either?"
"Never." He gripped the top of his cane tightly. "Unless…"
"Unless?"
An expression of realization suddenly crossed onto the old man's face, which quickly turned to dread. "Grab on to my hand."
Samuel's brow furrowed, and he let out an awkward chuckle. "W- what?"
The old man's face suddenly contorted in fury, and he lurched forward, grabbing Samuel's hand before he could react. With his other hand, he gripped the center of his cane and twirled it before raising it into the air and stabbing it into his chest. Blood spurted from the wound, followed by a thick, greenish pus. Samuel could only look on in revulsion, unable to escape from the old man's iron grip.
The Library shook, and the floor beneath them collapsed, swallowing them into the void.

When Samuel opened his eyes, he was standing in the same area he had just been, but the old man was gone. No blood or pus stained the floors; it was as if he had completely disappeared.
"Hello!?" He called out into the open area.
Something boomed ahead, and Samuel began sprinting forward, lantern in hand. After a few minutes of running, he spotted bookshelves again. But something rose above them. A massive silverfish, about two stories tall, quickly devoured an entire bookshelf before raising its head.
It looked straight at him and began to charge forward, its legs violently pounding on the floor. Samuel sprinted to the side and dived just as it narrowly swept past him. Swinging around, Samuel drew his pistol and shot at the beast, sinking bullets into its head and body. It appeared to falter for a moment, but then the bulletholes suddenly disappeared, replaced with pale, green muscle, and it reared up once more. Samuel froze like a deer in headlights, trembling.
But before it could charge again, something rammed into it, sending it crashing into the bookshelves. In a flash, the new predator had its jaws clamped onto the silverfish before tearing back, ripping out a chunk of its shiny flesh.
Meanwhile, Samuel fumbled to his feet with his lantern, raising it to see a crimson, reptilian tongue wrap itself around the twitching behemoth's thorax, its owner shrouded in thin shadow. The tongue tightened as the bug screeched, twitching and crashing itself into bookshelves. After a few moments, it cut through, completely bisecting the creature whose front half clawed at the tongue weakly before finally laying still. The tongue then ventured into the stomach of the creature, pulling out a mucus-covered brown book, which it flung into Samuel's arms.
The old man's voice spoke. "This is what you were looking for, isn't it?" His hands shaking, Samuel looked down and read the title. Extinction of Behemoths.
"I- it is." Samuel stuttered out, looking up to see two emerald, serpentine eyes peeking out from the creature shrouded in shadows.
"So they have come back?"
Samuel paused for a moment. "Yes."
"Then I must go deal with them," it said, and the Serpent charged into the darkness above, and all was quiet. Samuel threw the book to the floor, holding his head to his hands for a moment. The Foundation had found evidence of behemoths roaming the lands far before our times, but they never found out how they had all disappeared. That was why Samuel had been sent into the Library— they were hoping to find out how in hopes that it could help them terminate the newly risen Large Scale Aggressors.
Samuel reached up with a shaking hand and turned on his radio. He knew what had happened without even having to read the book.
The Serpent had killed them all.

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The cold metal burns against Mirage's temple. Afraid to turn his head, he cannot determine the nature of his ambusher, as the edge of his hood blocks them from view. He flexes the hand grasping a crowbar.
"Don't even think about it," commands a gruff woman's voice. "I'll blow yer brains right out!"
"Look, just tell me what you want or shoot me. We ain't got time to stand here forever," he says, nervously glancing at the canopy above that shifts and rattles without wind.
"Tell me what you coming to Adelanto for? We ain't seen a stranger 'round here in… well, ever!"
"I'm just passing through. Not looking to cause any trouble."
"Hrm." A few seconds of silence pass in standstill. Only a low, distant humming echoes through the clearing. The woman pushes the barrel of her gun more strongly against his head. "Why am I even on the fence about this? I should kill ya just in case!"
A sharp click pierces Mirage's ear as the woman pulls the hammer of her gun back. The humming is now clearly audible.
"Wait, shit, wait! What is that sound?" he asks frantically, desperately trying to extend the prognosis of lethal lead poisoning.
"What sound?" A wave of shimmering air passes between a line of trees.
"That," Mirage says and points, as a flock of floating hot irons emerge from the treeline, their plugs whipping in the air and their metal sizzling aggressively.
"Fuck! It's the Wardens!" the woman shouts as she lowers her gun and takes off in a sprint in a direction opposite to the flying home appliances. Mirage swiftly follows.
Used to a steadier environment, Mirage finds navigating through the thick vegetation to be difficult. Constantly tripping on roots and barging into prickly bushes, he looks much like a seal out of water, stumbling through and swinging wildly with his crowbar. Meanwhile the woman has unsheathed a machete, cleaving her way into the forest as she jumps off rocks and strides through the wilderness.
"Hey, wait for me!" shouts a frantic Mirage doing his best to keep up, the heat of the irons nearly singing the pin feathers at the back of his neck.
One of the metal abominations circles around and emerges from behind a tree, causing Mirage to nearly ram his face into the steaming metal plate. He backs up, but has to take another step forward as he finds himself surrounded. The air shimmers, and Mirage starts to feel much like an egg yolk on a frying pan. A fry, apt with the previous analogy, escapes his cloak and skin as an iron presses into his arm. The sizzling is drowned out by a scream as Mirage's skin bubbles and blackens.

Just as the machines are about to iron out the wrinkle in the world known as Mirage, the woman from before emerges from behind. She tic-tacs from the trunk of one tree to another, before sending herself flying forwards with a powerful kick, bringing her machete down on a hot iron as metal crumples and sparks fly. Another separates from the pack, set on avenging the expiration of its friend. The woman promptly thrusts the sword forwards and through the brave creature. Mirage flinches as the tip of a blade, dripping with oil, emerges from the other side, only inches from his face. The rest of the irons let out a high-pitched whir as they scatter, recognizing that they have been bested.
"You came… back?" Mirage says in a soft voice, eyes wide.
"Getting ironed out is an awful way to go. Couldn't let ya just be picked out like that. And maybe we survivors.. should be lookin' out for one 'nother. You better not make me regret this though, or you're next to get skewered." She points her blade at the metallic heap on the ground. Mirage gulps.
"C'mon now, we need to get going b'fore those things come back with their friends." The woman turns and dashes into the wilderness, intentionally slowing her pace to let Mirage follow her.
Traveling through the thicket is slow, progress hindered by tripping on roots, getting caught on branches and animated vines that attempt to sink their barbs into anything that passes by. Despite their pace, they make it through with relatively few problems. There is the occasional band of patrolling hot irons, a few walking trees, and a strange, glowing plant that uses it light to paralyze and devour still-living animals, but the pair manage to go unnoticed by hiding in the underbrush.
Eventually, a series of buildings, surrounded by a wooden makeshift fence, peak from behind trees. The pipe of a rifle sticks from between two logs.
"Who goes there?" shouts a muffled voice.
"It's me, Bertha. I found an outsider," the woman responds.
"Dangerous?"
"Highly unlikely." Bertha smiles, as Mirage narrows his eyes.
"Open the doors!" A crack appears in the wall, as the doors boom open, revealing a courtyard between buildings, on which people of all ages are walking about, going about their day as if the world had never ended.
"How many of you are there?" Mirage asks flabbergasted as he follows Bertha in.
"About 600. We're the biggest settlement in California. Or at least I think we are, I don't actually know." Bertha leads Mirage through the courtyard, past the various stalls and people, and into the heart of the city. "The place was founded long 'fore I arrived, so I can't tell ya too much 'bout it, but ask around and ya might find something."
"I see." Now that the adrenaline had worn off, Mirage took a look down at his singed arm. The burn had gone straight through his cloth wrappings and had taken a good chunk of his skin off. It was starting to sting, but didn't hurt as much as Mirage thought it should. Either he was still in shock, or the amount of times his body had been mutated by the anomalous meant that his pain receptors weren't quite what they once were. He did scream earlier, didn't he? Well, either way, he needed to get it treated.
"This way." Bertha's voiced pulled him out of his thoughts. He had kept going down the path they were following, completely missing that she had turned into an alleyway. He swung himself around and followed her, eventually ending up in one of the buildings.
It was cool and dark inside the warehouse, a welcome relief from the hot desert sun that had been searing down on them all afternoon. It smelled damp, and Mirage could see water dripping from the ceiling. Along the walls were makeshift beds, some occupied, some not, and in the various corners were piles of medical supplies. This must be their hospital. Bertha lead him to one of the unoccupied beds, sitting him down before beginning to address his injury.
"You're uh. One of the doctors here?" Mirage asked, trying his best to make small talk. He assumed that the nicer he was, the better treatment he would hopefully get, especially since he didn't know these folks too well.
"Sure am. Was a doctor 'fore all this happened too. Worked at one of the big hospitals over in NorCal." She pulled off Mirage's glove, then began unwrapping his arm. "Not that the knowledge means much anymore, y'know, anomalous injuries don't behave the same. Never were taught how to deal with those sorts of things."

"Guess I'm lucky I got a normal ol' burn then." Mirage winced slightly as the last of the cloth wrappings were pulled off his arm. He felt Bertha pause, not saying or doing anything, so he looked over to see what the problem was. Ah. Right. Even he had forgot. The hair follicles on his arms had stopped producing hair, and now produced what could best be compared to as pin feathers. A few near his elbow were closer to becoming fully fledged feathers, but they were an ugly off-white color, so Mirage had opted to wrap them up and keep them hidden.
"Hrm. Yer uh, feathers here, probably aren't gonna grow back." There wasn't any judgement in Bertha's tone, but there was a slight hesitance. While it was true that regular old humans weren't the norm anymore, getting used to that fact was a different story altogether. Mirage pulled his hood tighter across his face.
"That's fine." His tone was curt. Bertha shifted awkwardly before going to grab some ointment.
"You said you were just passing through?" She asked as she came back, gingerly applying whatever the ointment was to Mirage's arm. Mirage nodded.
"I heard there was a Way here - a portal to the Wanderers' Library. I don't mean to stay any longer than I need to, I have business to attend to there. That's all." Mirage debated over whether or not he wanted to talk about his grand plan to paint the world's best painting, but ended up deciding not to. The world would know of his art once again, but not yet. Share his ideas too soon with his audience and someone may take said ideas from him.
"You're going to the Library?" Bertha opened her mouth to say more, but hesitated. "Could - could yah do me a favor? Look - I'm sorry about earlier, y'know, the whole gun thing is just a precaution. We don't get many visitors as I said - and look! I'm treating the wound yah got here. For free. No charge. I just-"
"What's the favor?" Mirage cut in, not wanting to owe Bertha anything. He knew how deals work. The sooner he could get this sorted out, the better.
"Could yah look for my son while you're there?"
"Your son? He's not with you here?"
"No. I - I came here to look for him." Bertha paused again, wrapping up Mirage's arm with a cool compress and pulling it tight. "He loved to travel, go on road-trips and hiking and just generally explore the unknown. Last I heard from him he was around here, looking for something strange that had been spotted out in the desert."
"What's he look like?" Mirage asked, a sinking feeling beginning to form within his chest.
"His name is Michael." Bertha continued speaking, but Mirage had tuned her out, thinking about the corpse he had found in the desert near his art piece. He had killed this woman's son. He had destroyed this person's family. She would never learn what happened to her child. Well, she could, Mirage could tell her right now, as she helped him. Helped the murderer of her son. No. No no no. He'd been over this. The son got himself killed, he was stupid enough to fall for Mirage's art piece. That's all this was.
It wasn't his fault.
"That should be everything." Bertha lightly patted Mirage's arm. It did feel better. Mirage couldn't meet her gaze.
"I'll uhm. Keep an eye out for him. Tell him you're here." Mirage stared at the floor, watching the drops of water fall from the ceiling and collect into a large puddle in the middle of the floor.
"Thank you so much. I was such a stupid mother - trusting him to be alone like that - but how was I supposed to know the world would go to shit? Funny how long it's been since then, y'know? But I guess that's what happens when all of the West Coast is put under a time anomaly."
"Right. Yeah. Haha." Mirage cleared his throat, ready to get out of here. "Where is uh, where is the Way?"
"The Way? Hrm. It's on the North side of town, at the end of the main road. Can't miss it, as it's in the oldest building in town. We don't know much about it, as folks stopped trying to use it awhile ago, but we're pretty sure it has somethin' to do with time." Bertha watched as Mirage stood, brushing off his cloak and covering the bandages with his old cloth wrappings.
"Thanks for uh, everything."
"No, thank you." Mirage caught Bertha's gaze as he walked out, and his heart broke as she smiled at him. He pulled his cloak closer and rushed out, ready to forget about this town and all its inhabitants.

Despite the decrepit appearance of the building, it was still standing, sheltered between two large redwood trees on either side. Well, maybe standing wasn't quite the right term. The building had half sunk into the pink desert sands, making what was once a tall skyscraper nothing more than a short stub sticking out of the dirt. Mirage carefully stepped through the gaping hole that was once a window, watching to make sure his cloak didn't snag on any remaining shards of glass. He'd have to be wary in order to not disturb whatever was still living here, if anything, as the welcome he was given upon arriving to Adelanto was not the kindest.
Upon entering the building, Mirage was hit with the smell of dry-rot and animal feces. He pulled his hood tight around his face, stepping over the mysterious piles of goo that were scattered among the floor. The air felt heavy, and incredibly still, as Mirage's footsteps disturbing the piles of dust were probably the first action this building had scene in years. That was odd - a sheltered building like this, despite the mold and the mess, would be a perfect home for the Strange or a desperate survivor. What had stopped something from living here?
Mirage pushed his way past boxes with faded fragile and handle with care stickers. Whatever room he had stepped into appeared to be an apartment, or perhaps a dorm room of some kind. The moving boxes laid scattered about, as if someone had started to move in, but had never finished. Answers to where the Way was were not here, there was only a heavy sadness that came with abandonment. He made his way out of the room, and into the hall.
Mirage could feel himself being gently tugged at, as he saw a light flickering from down the hallway. It was calling him over, asking him to come examine it. He did so, but pulled out his crowbar to be ready for whatever may face him. The hallway opened up into a main lobby, and the shimmering light revealed itself to be the interior light of an elevator car. Mirage slowly lowered his crowbar as he examined the lift.

The elevator door was open, and on the floor of the lift were various piles of stuff. A set of candles, hourglasses, and pocket-watches, alongside things such as gold coins, a bucket of sand, and a dead mouse. The elevator itself only had one button on its panel, and neatly printed onto said button was an inscription of an hourglass shape, or perhaps a very stylized and pointy eight. Well, this must be the Way, as the locals did say it had to do something with time.
Upon looking closer at the piles of stuff, Mirage realized most were in sets of eight, or had something to do with the passage of time. Well, given the button, that would be the obvious answer. Mirage gingerly stepped into the elevator and pressed the button.
Nothing.
Okay, well, yeah, maybe that would be a bit too easy. Mirage let out a sigh of frustration. So what the hell could the Knock be then?
Mirage stepped out of the elevator and looked at the piles of stuff again, then at the button. An hourglass. Time. If not a literal representation of time, perhaps maybe the passage of time instead? Mirage knelt down and flipped all the hourglasses over, before taking out his lighter and lighting the candles. He picked up one of the watches and tried to wind it, only to find it's batteries were dead. Oh well, hopefully the other two would be enough. He stood up again, stepped in the elevator, and pressed the button.
Nothing.
Okay. What about the other odd items? Gold coins to what, bribe the elevator with? Sand to refill the hourglasses? And a dead mouse. The mouse might've just died in the elevator from other causes, so Mirage scratched that off his mental list. He instead knelt down and stuck his hand in the sand, digging around to see if it had anything in it. Nope. That just left the coins, which Mirage grabbed and flipped over in his hands. They appeared new compared to the other stuff in the elevator, and the year printed on them confirmed that -2100. Who was still making coins, Mirage had no idea, but here they were, younger than he was.
Hmm. Another thing about gold was that it didn't tarnish - Mirage could recall the lion god talking about that once, how his golden pelt would never rust. So maybe if the Knock wasn't about the literal passage of time, or the effects time had on an object, perhaps it was more metaphorical? Something that could withstand the sands of time? Wouldn't the coins have done that though - no, perhaps they weren't old enough. Hell, that meant Mirage wasn't old enough, either. What about-
The Nokia phone he took from that kid. That thing had to be ancient, pre 21st century. It was in his pocket, right? Mirage dug around and pulled it out, turning it on. Damn thing still worked. Wait, if it had been in his pocket all this time, why hadn't the Way worked? Did he have to offer it to the elevator? Mirage set the phone down in the center of the room.
"Hey. Elevator. Way. Knock Knock. Here's an old phone." Hell, he was going to look like such a fool if this didn't work. "Has withstood the passage of time for who knows how long, but a long time for sure, yeah?" He tapped the phone with his foot. "You can uh, have it."
Great, was that it? Mirage took a breath before pressing the the hourglass button. After a tense second, the button lit up, and the elevator chimed at him.
"Doors are now closing. Heading to: the Library floor." A mechanical voice chirped at him before the door began to slide shut. Mirage let out a sigh of relief.
"Time to go check out some books."

« The Desert Sun Shines A Cadmium Yellow | Spectrum | The Library Cries In Ultramarine Blue »


Tibon looked around, as if he had just been disturbed by something. General Bowe took notice of this.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I found Moose again." He gestured towards the spot in the carpet where, about an hour earlier, Moose had opened a trapdoor. They had both known this office was probably loaded with enough secrets to classify it as an escape room. Somehow, they had missed the secret escape tunnel. "She's close to the Site."
"Let's take care of her, then. A division of infantrymen should be enough to subdue her."
"No, no. Allow me. We have a personal score to settle."

The entire incident played through Director Tilda Moose's head like a VCR stuck on replay. What could she have done to stop it? Her reality bending was still too weak to have any effect on a hostile. The classified entries in the database made her out to be much stronger than she actually was. If she had noticed the army earlier, that could have given the Foundation the time to mobilize troops and get to Site-19. Or maybe if she hadn't been so damn persistent on reducing the use of teleportation anomalies, High Command could have just teleported Hammer Down into the Site and made the incident non-trivial.
Tilda Moose took a deep breath. Now wasn't the time for her to get mad at herself.
She sat atop a cliff that was about a fifteen minute hike from her office. This was a special spot for her; it was one of the few places that gave a nice vantage point of the entire Site. The entire Site that was now in Bowe's greasy hands. You know, if she had actually gone to the trouble of vetting the technicians, maybe no one would have sabotaged—
No, Moose instructed herself, you're not blaming yourself for this.
She closed her eyes and tried to focus. Being a reality bender made Moose very much in tune with reality. She could identify people, objects, and on rare occasions, emotion, for a good distance. She'd never really tested her limits with that.
She stared into Site-19, right at her old office. She saw General Bowe pacing around the room; he'd now properly identified the trapdoor that she'd used to escape. Next to him was the one who had somehow disabled her mind. What was its number again? After six thousand objects, it became hard to keep track… SCP-140-A. Right.
She moved her gaze downwards. The building was filled with soldiers rifling through every corner, looking for secret cabinets or gotchas or what-have-yous. The soulless Gearrenders accompanied them. Even lower, she could see the Foundation employees that had been left behind. They were boarding buses like they were coming home from summer camp.
Moose knew that the ones who hadn't defected to Bowe would probably be transferred to some other Foundation site. She also knew that Bowe wouldn't be so kind to her; at best, she would be turned into a hostage.
Suddenly, Moose noticed something at the edge of her gaze; it was behind her. Turning around, she saw two people… fighting? They were not really fighting. It was as if they were locked in some kind of drunken brawl.
Moose turned around and proceeded down the trail in their direction.

Why couldn't you sense the army from miles away? It's not like they're some sneaky assassins; it's an entire army! Are you seriously so bad at your job that—
Moose's inner monologue had strayed too far in that direction again. She imagined using a thin knife to cut that line of thought off. It worked.
She came to the site of the brawl she had noticed earlier. One of the men was wearing a Foundation researcher uniform. The other was an unshaven, wearing a bathrobe, and had his hair trimmed in a mullet. He was muttering something under his breath.
"What's going on?" asked Moose. She tried to deepen her voice.
The researcher looked in Moose's direction. This gave the bum the opportunity to yank the bag clean out of his hands, sending both of them to the ground. The bum started rooting around in the bag, and eventually pulled out a slab of lasagna contained within a Tubberware.
"Jesus Christ, what a day," said the researcher, dusting himself off, "first the Site gets taken over, and now I'm harassed by a bum!"
"I'm not a bum!" said the bum, "I'm a time traveler."
"Bullshit. You're obviously drunk."
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," interrupted Moose, "but what's your name?"
"I'm Dr. Dan," said the researcher, "I guess you managed to flee the Site, too?"
Moose nodded. "Unfortunately."
"What do you mean, unfortunately? The Site's taken over by a lunatic. We need to get as far away as possible so we can do something about it!"
"Wait, Bowe already took over the Site?" asked the bum. "Shit. That's what I came back here to stop!"
"Really?" replied Dr. Dan. "You came back to stop this?"
"Yeah. I was supposed to come back a week earlier. Shit. Kind of throws a wrench in my whole plan."
"If you're some kind of time traveler from the future," asks Dr. Dan, "why are you dressed like that?"
"This is just how people dress in the future."
"Sorry to interrupt," asked Moose, "where are you planning on going?"
"There's a town about fifty miles north of here. I've got camping supplies in this bag. Once I get there, I'll figure out a way to an airport, and then… go home, I guess?"
"There's a reason why we built Site-19 in Alaska," replied Moose. She tried to keep her voice steady, in spite of the millions of thoughts racing through her mind. "Unless you're a trained survivalist, it's impossible to cross that mountain range. If the fauna don't kill you, the cold will."
Dr. Dan looked up towards the mountain. "I was a Boy Scout, and the alternative is handing myself over to Bowe. I think I'll chance it."
"Yes, you can chance it. Alternatively, you could take the hidden tunnel that bores right through the mountain."
"Wait, there's a tunnel through there? Why didn't I know about this?"
"It's supposed to be limited to Level-4 personnel only." Moose smiled. "I'm Site Director Tilda Moose. Actually, given the circumstances, Former Site Director Tilda Moose."
Dr. Dan recoiled in shock. "Wait, you're Moose? Hot damn." He paused for a second. "Did you ever get my proposals?"
"Dr. Dan, right? Yes, I got your proposals. Let's go."

"So, how do you pronounce it?" Dr. Dan asked. "Kee-ter or Kett-er?"
"I say Kee-ter," replied Moose, "and most of the higher ups I talk to say Kee-ter as well."
"Huh. I swear on my life, my boss yelled at me for not saying 'Kett-er'."
The questions were a welcome distraction from thinking about Site-19. What would Bowe do now that he had the Site? Would he just let all of the anomalies loose? Would he use them for some other nefarious purpose. Goddamn it, if only Moose had switched to using memetic verification instead of biological, none of this would have happened!
There it was again. As Moose shut it out of her mind, the bum was starting to rant again.
"Does it really matter?" replied the bum. That had also been his reply when Moose had asked for his name. He kept following them around; Moose had already determined that he was not a threat. "How often are you saying Keter out loud?"
Moose ignored him. Dr. Dan changed the subject. "What're you gonna do once you get to town? I've got a guy who owes me an airline ticket."
"You don't know about the pickup hotline?"
"What pickup hotline?"
"There's a number you can call. If you tell them you need to pick up steak and potatoes to go, the Foundation sends a covert retrieval agent. We can get back to safety in under fourty-eight hours."
"This tunnel, the hotline, why didn't I know about this before?"
"Hey!" yelled a voice from further down the tunnel.
"Ah, fuck," the bum whispered, "it's the fuzz!"
"They must've found the tunnel," said Moose. "Stand still and be quiet. I can cover this."
The soldier ran down from the other end of the tunnel, rifle in tow. He looked around for the source of the voices, but couldn't find anything. Figuring that they'd snuck back down the tunnel, the soldier continued onwards.
Moose demanifested the perception filter after the soldier was gone. Recognizing the close call, the trio moved on.

After nodding, Moose put down the phone. "They should be here in twenty-four hours."
"Great," replied Dr. Dan. He sat down on the motel bed and fiddled with a pen. "So what do we do until then?"
"I guess we could figure out what to do next."
"Watch a movie?" replied Dr. Dan, "Is there even a theater in this town?"
"I mean in the grander scheme of things."
"Oh. Hey, where's that bum that followed us through the tunnel?"
"He was digging through the trash can outside. We should bring him in; he might bring too much attention to us."
Moose opened the door to look outside. The first thing she saw was a pile of guts where the bum used to be. The second was SCP-140-A playing with those entrails like a child toying with a plate of spaghetti. Before Moose shut the door, SCP-140-A definitely saw her.
Dr. Dan recognized the panic on Moose's face. "What is it?" he asked in a hushed tone.
"Item Number: SCP-140-A," said Moose in a shaky voice. "Object Class: Keter." As she took her pistol out of her jacket, she was desperately trying to remember anything she could about the entity standing right outside the door. After reading six thousand documents worth of things that go bump in the night, she needed a technique to remember all of them.
"Hypnotist, carnekinetic, potential reality bender." Moose was visualizing the file in her head and trying to read the keywords off of it. She wiped some sweat from her brow and tried to focus. If she could just see past the motel door, she could maybe get a hint of what SCP-140-A was trying next.
"I'm gonna put on some music!" replied Dr. Dan, "That way, he can't get in our heads!"
"Not how it works!" Moose's gun held twelve bullets; that meant twelve chances to put lead into the book publisher. It was unfortunate that she was a poor shot. She'd been offered gun practice in the past, but she turned it down because she had research to do. It wasn't like that research was going to help her now.
Maybe if she'd actually had a trigger finger she could've taken out Bowe and his little stooge back when they'd ambushed her. Then she might've actually been able to rout the army. Then she wouldn't be sitting in a motel room panicking about a hypnotist, and maybe Site-19 wouldn't be in enemy hands! All because you thought you were too good to hold a weapon.
G_d, you were the worst choice for Site Director! In Bright's fifteen year tenure, he barely had as much as a containment breach; yet, the minute you take over, Site-19 gets flattened like a poorly-built house of cards! You were trusted to protect the world, and you let everyone down! Just because the Foundation thought you were the best for the job.
These weren't her words.
Your PhD might as well be made out of stale hardtack, you know how much you struggled. Anything of value that came out of your research came from other people first. The only reason you were promoted from Junior Researcher is because you were around the longest. Your career is muddled with enough failures to fill a bookshelf, and the blood you've cost is enough to fill a swimming pool. So why did you even think you could be Site Director in the first place?
The world in front of Moose had stopped. It was like she was viewing an old VCR that someone had put in the microwave. In front of her, she could make out the vague silhouette of a threatening figure. How did it get inside?
You're holding a gun. You want to redeem yourself? You want to prove to the world that you have even an ounce of the worthiness required to direct Site-19? Then take the shot and kill me, General Bowe's right hand man. Lift the gun up and fill my brain with lead. I bet you can't even do that, you degenerate.
Moose lifted up the gun. Before she could send the signal to her finger, she stopped. She needed to think.
She closed her eyes and pushed against the thoughts. Uncharacteristically, the thoughts pushed back. Her fists clenched as she put all of her mental effort into barricading the intrusion from her mind. Then, she focused. Almost immediately, she could see reality around her. It was true that there was a figure in front of her. However, it wasn't SCP-140-A.
She turned to her right and fired four shots out the window.

The vertigo sent Moose to the ground. By the time she got up, she saw Dr. Dan standing outside the window. He was making sure there was a liberal amount of bullets inside of SCP-140-A's corpse. Moose noticed he was bleeding from the shoulder.
"You shot me, Moose!" Dr. Dan said. "Thankfully, you're a pretty poor shot."
She remembered when she had the impulse to squeeze the trigger of the gun. Maybe she had actually fired the gun. Moose was still stunned.
"Mind helping me drag this body inside? Having a dead guy out here might attract the wrong kind of attention."
After snapping out of her trance, Moose walked outside and took the well-dressed dead body the legs. Somehow, she felt a little better about Site-19. She really was the kind of person who could actually run a Site.
"I'm thinking of giving this bastard a Viking funeral in the bathtub. Got a better way to get rid of him?"

« Sun (Sister) and Moon (Champion) | Old Foes Hub | The Bowe Decommission, Part One »

More by notgull

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