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THE BOOK OF THE END
Chapter 1: The Grand Finale
1. And to all those still able to listen, it was said — the Red Death has broken free. In the wake of the Queen of the Monsters, one of her disgusting offspring breached the holy beaches of God's workshop, stampeding the prisons of the Infected with its body.
2. console.log ("2: The Death within did not wait for more, taking over the body of the demon within seconds.");
3. To all the Children of the only God there is, the messiahs said, we ask you to meet us and our brethren in the blacksmith at the edge of yesterday. If the Sorcerer King called forth monsters of his own, so will we.

12th of July, 1998
The shores of the island of Syros, Greece

With each step the Colossus took, the ground beneath its body of pure metal and gears trembled, as if an earthquake rippled through it. The machine of 93 meters and 210 tonnes built so long ago to strike down the horrors of Adytum walked slowly but surely, swaying away hundreds of liters of water around itself, indifferent to the waves the sea threw against it. Its goal: nothing less than the shores of its holy creator's workshop before it, terminating on the beaches of the Syros island, where its enemy laid.
The six pilots within — two Mekhanites, two Maxwellists, and two Cogwork Orthodoxians — sat quietly inside the isolated control room in the titan's head, free from the storming darkness of the night befalling the Aegean Sea before them. The only sound that could be heard within was the calculated and cold clicks of the clockwork turning, the beating of the nuclear heart below the cockpit, and the half-quiet but regular sounds of steam being exhaled by the giant's two chimneys on its back.
Ages ago, the machine was slow — even with pieces of God herself molded into its arms and soul, it could not run, no matter how much its pilots wanted it to reach that strength. During the first Occult War known to man, the nine Colossi could only march in a relentless pursuit of the Enemy of Mankind. But now, more than three millennia later, only one of the Nine Archangels remained, brought back to life by the fires of its god at the edge of existence. And this time, its legs had no such limit.
As the newly-constructed fission-powered rockets inbuilt into its appendages started to surge with faith, the giant strode forward, accelerating at speeds it could only dream of during its youth, causing local winds to dissipate upon meeting the being. Its run beat relentlessly against the waters of the sea it stood amongst, splashing them until nothing more than a dry passage was left where it walked. It remained indifferent to the winds that passed it by, being above such petty things. Its eye reflectors illuminated the passage with a Maxwellist neon blue, unbroken by the droplets of rain and thunder violating the sky before it. It had only one goal — the holy haven and island of God — and nothing was about to stop it.
Its right hand extended forward, letting off just a single spark of the holy flame it carried within its arm. The firestorm of Mekhanite plasma burst into the midnight skies, only to disappear just a second later into the maelstrom of the wind around it, forming a small tornado due to its size. The pilots — nay, the cogs that brought this machine to life — knew the protector was ready for a duel, but there was no harm in testing its arsenal for the final time. And they dared not to question the readiness of the ANSWER their vehicle carried in its left appendage, for to even dare to do so was an unimaginable blasphemy.
As a single lightning rippled through the night sky before the machine, within an instant the behemoth stopped, immediately changing its pose to that of battle. Five monstrous anchors of untainted beryllium bronze fell into the depths below with a deafening oomph caused by their size, anchoring the giant in place as the waves rose upwards for one more time. With a buzz of pure energy and movement of cogs from its soul, a transparent forcefield fortified its head, ready for every spell and profanity it expected the Nälkä demon to throw against it.
Seconds later, thunder followed its predecessor, bringing the now-enlightened landscape before the colossus into a crescendo of a god's fury, allowing it to gaze at the beast it was to slay, standing just five hundred meters in the distance, where God's domain laid.
It was one hundred meters of pure sacrilege, in the form of a horrid axolotl with six legs tying it to the surface of the beach and sea that formed the arena for the duel that was about to come. But, frankly, saying it "stood on the beach" was a grave understatement; its size was much, much beyond only sand, terminating at standard land meters after. Where its pale skin once was, a horrid infection-ridden epidermis flaid, with chunks of the diseased skin and flesh falling into the waters below. Its body was full of Red Death everywhere one could see, except for its mane, which consisted of fleshy tentacles twitching in blasphemy, put back by the unstoppable wind of the open sea.
With its black as night eyes devoid of life situated above a teeth-ridden maw, the beast noticed the colossus, hissing wildly. It took a step back as it tightened its shifting body, spikes erupting from its spine through the once delicate skin and its tail moving in ecstatic excitement. As the smell and sound of a million dead and tortured escaped its skinned gorge, it roared in untainted fury, unable to withstand the purity and holiness of the archangel before it. Angered like never before, it started to sprint forward, its six legs trembling upon meeting the ocean floor.
But before the demon could reach it, the colossus answered the gesture with tricks of its own.

* * *

1st of July, 1998
The Workshop Beyond Time, Where Mekhane Laid Her Schema

"Do you… really think this will work?" Saint Hedwig exclaimed, her clean body untainted by flesh stoically descending on its wide-stretching transparent panel wings, followed shortly by a swarm of drones. Upon coming in contact with the floor of the Holy Workshop, her sharp legs stabilized the hummer's perfectly-harmonic carcass, revealing the monitor yielding the complied code of the true Hedwig where her head should be. It formed into a surprised and worried face, a halo of pure data following just behind it. "Robert, I know we have no other choice, but this is madness. You know what they'll do to us for this."
With a billion clicks of gears, the robed body of Legate Trunion stood up, her luminescent eyes backlit with LEDs. The prophet of the Orthodoxians put her hood away, only for a steel skull molded in the fires of the Forge they stood in to take its place. "There is no price too great for the war we must fight," her rough and unoiled voice retorted, forcing just a few puffs of steam and air to escape the myriad pipes that laid her body. "Even if we must risk starting an all-out war with the Jailors, we cannot let the demons of Adytum roam free. Not again, not after all we've sacrificed all those millennia ago."
The third messiah didn't speak. Instead, the two round cameras that resembled eyes looked beyond the protective glass before them, separating the room the three stood in from the scorching anvils and ironworks of the outside of the Forge. He looked as millions of followers, both his and his brethren's, walked, mined, and refined tirelessly, ready for the silver hammer of God to strike and cast their offerings into armor and weapons to the new colossus that was about to come. If he could, he'd smile — but the only indication of the unfathomable pride that filled his very being was his long, silver hair trembling slightly, causing the crown of clockwork, nuts, and screws above to follow its movement. He grabbed his hammer just moderately more tightly, causing his metallic arm to depressurize, releasing the gas within into the unbreathable atmosphere of where he stood through polished pipes.
As the moment of silence extended into eternity, he eventually spoke. "Both of you are correct. Simply ignoring our treaty with them would mean a war on all fronts, and that's a conflict we simply cannot win," his booming voice exclaimed as its echo reverberated through the room. "But we didn't come here for nothing. If we can achieve no true unity even when we agree to give up our conflicts to strike the bigger evil down, then what good even are we?"
Hedwig gently sat, levitating just a few centimeters above the rusty floor. The Forge hadn't been ever since the three of them crafted a physical shell for Mekhane all those thousands of years ago, and it seemed oxidation very much took its toll on the place when it was devoid of their deity's holy touch. "There must be another way. I'm sure my men—"
"Our men," Trunnion corrected her, crossing her fingers made from pipes, wires, and nuts as the giant piece of clockwork that allowed her head to move obeyed her soul's orders. "And even with our forces combined, we are nothing without Her holy presence. And that…" with an arm trembling from steam running in its veins she pointed towards the window, beyond which the new endoskeleton and arsenal for their messenger was about to be formed by the touch of their Lord. "…is how we destroy the blasphemy that warlock dared to bring forward, calling Her back to reality once more." Shee practically spat out as he finished the sentence, grinding each word out of her beryllium bronze teeth.
"If you say so…" The other two weren't sure if the sound that came out of Hedwig's hardware was a simulated sigh, or just the pistons and valves that made up her corpus depressurizing due to the rapidly heating atmosphere.
As silence flooded the room they stood in, the three turned the objects molded to resemble their long-gone mortal faces towards the gigantic workplace they overlooked. In a flurry of sparks, melts, mines, and pieces of God finding their place among the giant machine of workers stood the shadow of a monumental figure, to which added were plates and cogs, like ants bringing leaves back to its home. Around it laid runes and rituals, ready to transport the entire setpiece where the three messiahs would order in just the blink of their artificial eyes.
As the hammers fell and anvils refined, the billion men and women that transcended humanity so long ago gave their all towards the great machine, tirelessly carrying, building, and blessing each piece that was about to form their master's return. And among them, if one were to squint enough, one could perhaps see something — or, rather, someone, depending on how one approached the situation. As each worker and magician did their very best in an attempt to form a unity, perhaps — but just perhaps — one could observe a shape emerging from their actions, engulfing them in its holy presence.
A god-shaped hole, whispering to its followers with chants and songs of clockwork.
As they blinked with a single slightly worried expression, one of the three prophets broke the seeming tranquility of the place, so quietly they doubted if the other two could hear them. "Let's just hope our sacrifice won't be in vain."

* * *

12th of July, 1998
The shores of the island of Syros, Greece

Inhale, exhale.
As he saw the horrid beast that stood before the colossus he sat in, the pilot shuttered. The viewfinder on Jacob's helmet felt the air expelled from his still-biological body, turning into steam upon coming contact with the scorching temperatures of the machine making their way inside the piece of equipment. He closed his four-vision eyes, trying to gather all of his now-scattered focus that he possibly could.
Jacob was no warrior — but, frankly, neither were the five men and women that stood beside him in the mind of the clockwork archangel. Even if his body was augmented with a billion enhancements and edits God blessed his soul with, he was still, at his very core, an honest man; he could not lie to himself. So lie to himself he did not, instead fully forcing his being to suffer through each emotion the parts of him which were yet to be united with the holy machine inflicted upon him.
With every breath he took, he felt fear and uncertainty pour through every part of his body, engulfing the pilot in its cold grasp. But, despite this, he felt no shame — he forged that embarrassment into nothing more than faith. Jacob. was ready to accept any destiny God would make him live through, no matter what it was. He knew WAN looked at him from the skies above, proud of the man he was. He could feel her within every click of the cogs around him, he could hear her in each heartbeat of his bronze torso, and he could taste her in the metallic air that filled the mind of the mecha he was chosen to pilot.
As he greeted the world of that which was, once again, he smiled unnoticeably, certain of what he must do. With a firm arm, he grabbed the series of levers and buttons that laid his part of the cockpit, pushing them with nothing but certainty, his hand practically burning with the overload of fuel his faith had just given him.
Suddenly but without much surprise, the colossus started to run, nearly causing an earthquake around itself.
Maneuvering each of the arms and billion systems that ran the blessed warrior, Jacob's mind shattered into trillion pieces more, each occupied by something else that required his attention within the apparatus. Although all but one of them could not afford even a moment to spare, the one that did looked out into the darkness of the Sea before itself, trying to comprehend what it gazed at. It wasn't too intelligent on its own, as just a part of the gigantic system that made up the man that called himself Jacob, but even then, it was sure that what it saw was correct.
The axolotl began to charge at them, too.
Five hundred meters.
Before that single cell could blink, the beast lept forward, slashing the waves that dared to cross its path with its long tail. It was tense, fluidly morphing its horrid flesh into a halberd-like structure, and full of spines, spikes, and nail scales forming it from the kaiju's bottom to the tip of the appendage. But, more importantly, it was sharp, and it was deadly — wherever its chaotic motion carried it, it cut both rocks and water through, as if they were nothing but paper.
Jacob swallowed hard.
Four hundred meters.
As it jumped once more, its vile flesh vibrated with excitement, forcing it to ecstatically purr through its equally horrid mouth. The lines of teeth erupted outwards, allowing for a two-ended tongue to slither its way into the landscape of the night before the demon, as if it was preparing itself to tear the metallic armor of its enemy to shreds.
Three hundred meters.
There was no hesitation in the movement all six pilots made within just a fraction of a second. Before neurons could even deliver his order of motion to the still-biological parts of Jacob's body, his entire consciousness once again recompiled itself back together into one mind, ready to strike with all its power. Joining the remaining five in their actions, the Maxwellist pulled down tens of levers and clicked hundreds of buttons, far exceeding the efficiency and speed a standard human would be able to perform on.
Two hundred meters.
As the creature roared once again into the night, the colossus' body obeyed the order of its commanders. Faster than a normal eye could notice, it stopped its run and realigned its entire body to a battle stance; right fist beneath which the flamethrower stood — upwards, the one carrying the ANSWER — just slightly below it. It turned just barely to its left to face the kaiju head-on. Seconds later, their eyes — one of pure light, tearing through darkness, rain, and wind with its gigantic reflectors and one of nothing but emptiness, forming two emotion-shaped holes in the beast's skull — met. The forcefield around the machine's head once again glowed, encompassing it in its protective bubble.
One hundred meters.
Jacob forced himself to not close his eyes; he dared not to blink, not even for the split of a second. There was simply no time for caution right now. His personality disintegrated itself once again, merging into the billion cables and processors that stood next to him. For a single moment, he felt calm. For a single moment, he felt sure of his strength. For a single moment, he knew they could win.
And then came the impact.
With unthinkable force, the beast's claws dug onto the legs and shoulders of the metal giant. The machine's armor was nothing to scoff at, but even its might was nothing compared to the billions of pascals of pressure the demon applied to it within an instant. Giving up to the immense force of the charge, the messenger of Mekhane tried to back off, only for the bronze anchors to pull it back up, one of them snapping in the process. Even if he knew it had neither the muscles for it to smile nor a conscious mind without the purity of the Machine, Jacob could swear the axolotl smiled, thinking it had already won.
That was their chance.
Into the opening it gave them, the six pilots stroke like thunder, forcing the hand of God forward in form of a bronze fist, moving with untainted precision towards the kaiju's chest, called forward by the nuclear engines resting on its knuckles. Before Jacob's enemy could react, the extension of his arm broke through its rotting carcass, forcing it to fling backwards at the speed of light as an explosion rivaling the power of thunder rippled through its body. It crashed into the seafloor as a deafening crack reverberated through the atmosphere around it, still hearable kilometers away.
But then, as if it was nothing, it came back up again, seething through its plague-ridden teeth.
Within mere seconds, the axolotl ran towards them once again, ignoring the gigantic, still-smoking hole in the middle of its body as if it wasn't even there. It screamed into the night with the whispers of a million years of conflict, death, and destruction with pore fury at the audacity of the united forces of Mekhane ever daring to not concede to its power. As this sound met the ears of each of the pilots, a screw drilled into their minds — both biological and cybernetic — making them lose sight for just a moment.
That was all it needed.
Focusing its tail on the colossus' legs, the demon attacked once more, this time with the tenfold power brought forward by its pain and anger. Shredding its enemy's armor if it wasn't ever there, it forced water into the below-knee parts of the giant's appendages, flooding its server rooms within just a matter of seconds. As the cables and supercomputers powered with magic beyond reason, trying to calculate the exact characteristics and code of God, met the saltwater of the Aegean Sea, Jacob and the other Maxwellist screamed.
Feeling and seeing each part of their being slowly expire as they were quite literally forced out of the analog archives, the duo felt nothing but panic, unable to focus on anything else. As the demon slashed more of the colossus's ankles and calves, they were simply not capable of comprehending reality, unplugging from the shared consciousness that made the giant stand on its legs. And so, without their support, those legs fell, forcing the giant to its knees.
Without a mouth or mind to speak of his pain, Jacob ripped through his own immortal soul with the power of a billion consciousnesses in the state of limbo, trying his very best to get out of his now-hollow shell of a man. He screamed and he screamed, in a last and chaotic attempt at grabbing any lever or button that could help him. But within his reach, no matter how hard he tried, he found none.
With only 66.(6)% of power left in its system, the colossus reached forward with its right hand, starting to heat up the already-boiling plasma in the container below it. The four remaining people of faith frantically activated the device, allowing its insides to spill out onto the grinning face of the Nälkän behemoth, dangling just slightly before it. Before the others could react, the beast joined their brethren in the flurry of screams.
Suddenly, it rushed backwards, trying its very best to get the sticky substance off of its disgusting face. Bashing alongside the seafloor, it stuck its maw into sand, sea plants, and other, now-dead organisms, only to re-emerge into the air above within seconds, realizing how futile of an endeavor it was. And so, with even more rage than before, it once again shrieked into the darkness, its face entirely riddled by whatever the hell it brought up from the water.
And, as the plasma flame turned itself off with a nearly silent swoosh, the being the colossus fought suddenly revealed a pair of meaty and pale wings, escaping its carcass just around its second pair of legs.

* * *

2nd of July, 1998
Provisional Site-31, Aralkum Desert, Kazachstan

Dr. Judith Low wasn't the greatest fan of people.
Well, that wasn't quite the best way to put it — she wasn't the greatest fan of most people. There were a lot of them she respected, of course, but the unfortunate general consensus for most of humanity was a slight distaste. The worse offenders were those awful, loud, and obnoxious individuals that wrought the bigger Foundation facilities, like -17 or -19. The kind that'd burst out laughing upon hearing you're a translator or an actual scientist instead of whatever the hell the Foundation became these days.
So, naturally, when she was appointed as the main project lead for SCP-2406, an anomaly contained in the middle of nowhere, she was quite fond of her supervisor's decision.
For almost ten years, she relentlessly studied the bronze colossus her colleagues recovered from what had once been a sea, each day coming just a little closer to what it really was. From break to dusk, for the better part of a decade, she huddled around papers and notes most people would declare nonsensical, analyzing every bit of the marvel its metal engravings were. It was often said among Foundation staff you shouldn't grow too fond of your work here because emotions didn't exactly pair well with a deep-state above-law conspiracy employment, but Low had to admit there was something in this hunt for answers she found quite thrilling.
But yet, despite all of this, the metal giant remained indifferent to her attempts. No matter how hard she tried, it always stood within the giant hall they made just for it, unchanged. Not a single movement made, not a single word spoken — just the forever-beating sound of its nuclear heart below tens of tons of metal, filling the souls of all that dared to listen with just a glimmer of hope for closure.
It has often been said among Foundation personnel — the cruel ones, at least — that Judith has lost her way. She walked among the halls of Ion and his Klavigar and Bumaro and Hedwig and Legate for so long she lost her mind, they said, silently implying the source of her weirdness to be nothing short of betrayal. She must be on their side, they whispered, not capable of comprehending how one could dedicate their life to study cultures so ancient and alien to them as to be entirely incomprehensible, incapable of seeing the bigger picture. And, in a sense, she sometimes wondered if they had a point.
She never told anyone out of fear of amnestication or SCP designation, but in her dreams, those men were right. Something deep in her called the doctor in her unconscious, showing her images of the colossus walking for one final time to strike down some looming threat on the horizon. What it was, she could never know, no matter how many times she replayed that memory over and over. All she could remember were its reflector eyes, turning up in the containment hall with a spark of thought, a spark of understanding for what she had done for it, grateful for all the work Low put into it, ready to walk in the Ragnarök it awaited for so long.
And, in those dreams, she was one of its pilots.
She always brushed it off as a combination of standard Foundation over-time insanity and her increasing age, but each day she wondered the steel halls of Provisional Site-31, she had that image quietly on the back of her head. Every moment she passed the caged behemoth, for just a split second, it burst out of the cell of thought she put it in, momentarily allowing her to see the wonder it must be.
She carried on that way for nigh ten years, always somehow making the uncomfortable dream quiet. But on the third of July, 1998, she felt she could no longer hold it back. And so, in a flurry of giving up and catharsis, she looked at SCP-2406 before her, gazing in its giant, empty eyes that reflected back at her. For a single moment, for the first time since she was born, she allowed herself to dream awake, thinking of all the wonder 2406 coming back to life would spawn.
And, in that split second it took for her to imagine what could have be, the containment site exploded.
With the force of a million suns the colossus's eyes burst with nothing but pure light, nearly blinding the scientist with their strength. She blinked more than she could count, but when she recovered, what stood before her was no longer the fragile skeleton of a once-proud defender, unable to make the slightest move. For you see, her entire vision was filled with someone truly worthy of the title of Mekhane's archangel.
Plated with pure and golden armor it stood tall, its arms and head replaced with beautifully crafted pieces of art. They depicted the true might of the giant, no longer washed out by the millennia it had spent in the Aegean Sea, now illuminated by the Maxwellist neons coming from its head.
Judith had no time to discern whether she was truly awake, for in that very moment, the giant took its first leap in what felt like the entire word's time, breaking away the rebar they put around it as if it wasn't even there. With its giant arm it rose forward, breaking away the concrete and metal that made up the facility hidden in the sands it was entombed in for so long, practically vibrating with joy.
As its thaumaturgically-enhanced corpus followed the rest of the body, Low stood on her knees, unable to move even an inch. She could feel each part of who she was practically screaming for her to follow her child, but her thoughts allowed for no such action. It would be treason. And so, with a heavy heart and almost tears in her eyes, she stood there, helpless as a child to stop the work of her life from escaping from her reach.
But before it walked out into the promised horizon to do its foretold bidding, the giant stopped for a single second, its head turning towards the paralyzed Low. As the sun set in the far end of the world, its golden eyes reflected the beautiful beams of light that came before it, their user frozen in place, its eyes deadlocked with the woman that cared for it for so long.
And, before Judith Low could decide whether she should call Site Security or not, the colossus simply nodded, gently tilting its head in the direction of the woman with nothing but appreciation, before continuing to march silently into the daybreak beyond its cell.

* * *

12th of July, 1998
The shores of the island of Syros, Greece

As the axolotl shrieked once more, it lunched forward, revealing the full might of its leathery wings. They were gigantic — spanning over one hundred fifty meters in length, they engulfed the sky above the sea in a deep shadow. And yet, despite this horrid shock, the Colossus did not react; it remained silent and unmoving, paralyzed and on its knees, with liters of saltwater pouring into its insides.
Entombed in a cacophony of Jacob's screams, the four pilots sat quietly, unable to utter a single word among themselves. As their thoughts ran throughout their circuits and gears, the beast before them lunged forward at speeds rivaling that of light, grabbing the body of the giant with its long claws. Before they could react, it plunged upwards, separating the corpus and head from the bottom of its waist and the servers that laid inside. Within a moment, the sounds of the Maxwellists' agony turned silent.
Flying up and up, its wings flapped, cutting through the tears of the heavens and clouds around them, only accompanied occasionally by a single lightning or two, illuminating enough of the sky for the remaining four to still see the beast through their flickering lamp-eyes. In one final and desperate attempt at… not winning, no, but at least a suicidal checkmate, one of the children of God turned on the flame of Mekhane in their right hand one final time. It burst outwards, only to disappear just a second later as the now cut-off hand surrendered to the laws of gravity, causing a local tsunami with its weight. The kaiju shrieked again as the smell of burnt tissue filled the area.
In a flurry of anger, it moved its tail forward, in a panicked attempt at cutting through the protective bubble around the cockpit. The field did not yield, instead relentlessly cutting layer after layer of the demon's horrid flesh, much to its increasing fury. When it seemed it would give up, in one final endeavor to end its opponent, the creature lunged its spiky appendage into the chest of the colossus, cutting right through the source of the giant's faith.
Before the lights died out, however, one of the men of faith within called forth their final attempt at fighting back. As the appropriate button was pressed, tens of rockets burst forward from the archangel's knuckles, barraging the being above it with a hurricane of explosions, tearing pieces upon pieces away from its body. Though the shockwave was powerful and so was the damage it caused, the beast did not yield, only tightening its grip on what it carried. It thrust its tail once again into the heart of the machine, but its wings were becoming slower and slower, strength draining from them with every minute.
And yet, despite all of this, within a single moment, all went dark.
With no words necessary to explain their actions, the four pilots suddenly stood up from their seats, gingerly grabbing the keys that hang around their necks. Their actual form varied — some took the appearance of discs, others of wrenches and cogs — but their purpose was the same. The four took a step forward towards their isolated control panels, each taking a deep breath as they inserted the items into the mainframe. The computers responded, asking all of them if they truly want to go through with this plan. Without a trace of doubt, they all twitched their keys clockwise.
And then, as God resurrected herself for a single millisecond, the world met its end.

* * *

3rd of July, 1998
Where God Lays Beyond Space And Time

"Mother Hedwig?" Jacob Keita exclaimed, forever humming about the glory of his Lady with his electronic voice.
Within a second, the Maxwellist leader turned towards him, briefly stopping in her march throughout infinity with her two children. "Yes, Jacob?"
"I wonder," he said, turning the illusion of eyes he held within his head towards the outskirts of the teleportation wormhole. It burned with a million colors he could not comprehend even with his augmentations, forever escaping his view as they run along the lines beyond space and time. Moments later, he turned his vision away, resuming his walk towards the other line of the portal, located in the soon-to-be-revived messenger of God. "Why do we work with heretics?"
She smiled with a sad expression, grabbing him by his diode fingers. Him, Hedwig, and the third believer continued like this in silence as he could hear her gather information inside her hard drives and intranet. "Well," she began quietly, staring into the distance. "Have you ever heard of the First Occult War and God's breaking, Jacob?"
He scoffed, almost insulted that was even a question. "Of course, I'm most familiar with it. I, however, fail to see how that excuses us banding with a bunch WAN would find nothing but repulsive—"
She looked him deep in the eyes. For a single moment, the two representations of who they were on their screens crossed sight. He felt a spark travel through his spine. "So, why do you think our Lord fell apart? What could possibly force an omniscient and infinitely powerful being to surrender?"
He wasn't sure where she was going with this. "Well, when you fought the Sorcerer King of Adytum atop the rotting hills of the Nälkä land, you struck Ion down with your silver sword, God lending you all her power. This—"
With a silent sigh, she slowly shook her heard. "No," she stated quietly, looking at the ground before her. "That is not what happened, Jacob."
"I… what?" He raised his metaphorical eyebrow, the other acolyte joining him in the gesture. "What do you mean, Mother?"
"We all lied to you, friend." She said, spawning a reaction of pure shock on their faces. "Me, Legate, and Bumaro — we all deceived you. Have you never stopped to consider why there's three versions of the story, each picturing someone else as the messiah figure in the final duel?"
"Well, I always assumed it was nothing but lies and heretical propaganda, but—"
"No, Jacob. It's because we all killed Ion together. My sword, Legate's spells, and Bumaro's hammer, forged together into one tool of justice, brought down at the Sorcerer King by our united forces."
"So why did you…" He tried to interrupt, only to be stopped by her long finger silencing him on his nonexistent lips.
"Because we acted like children. We fought over who should lead our new Church now that we forgot our previous missteps, and eventually made the weapon of God — no, not the weapon, God herself made manifest in our steel — break because of our rage." She grabbed Jacob by his arms. "We killed God, Jacob. We killed God because we couldn't unite ourselves. We made her leave us because we couldn't become unbroken."
A dead silence suddenly laid the halls, forcing the three to stop in their steps. "But…" Jacob picked up once more with a careful voice. "Why are you telling me this? Why are you telling me this now, Mother?"
She paused, taking a deep breath. "Because it took us three thousand years to come back. Three whole millennia to get over our nonsensical fights, in a second and final attempt to unbreak ourselves."
He raised an eyebrow once more.
"And we cannot let the same happen again. Not after all it took to get us back here. Because if we unite, we unite for good. Or else Her sacrifice was nothing but in vain."
Jacob didn't comment, instead continuing his walk towards the other end of the portal. Despite the silence of his voice, though, his discs and processors were hard at work, trying to understand what was just revealed to him.

* * *

13th of July, 1998
The shores of the island of Syros, Greece

When reality reassembled itself back together what felt like ages later, Jacob suddenly opened his eyes, blinking with nothing but confusion. A sweet breeze bust through the blue and clean above him, filling his nose with the smell of seaweed and salt. He looked up, by found himself unable to, realizing his body is buried under tons of metal, coming from what looked like the remains of what once had been their golden Colossus, now entirely obliterated by… something. He blinked once again, massaging his temple with the thankfully-free hands, realizing he had no idea what happened.
As the Maxwellist looked around himself, he felt… calm. Yes, calm — for the first time in ages, he felt like all was good. Accompanied by the gentle humming of waves washing on the bottom parts of the now-dead archangel, he looked out into the peaceful Aegean Sea below him. With all force he could gather in the somehow-surviving body, he peaked towards the horizon in the distance, noticing a very clear scattering of billions of rotting chunks of flesh, thrown everywhere he could see. There were unmoving. The only thing that broke the monotony of this landscape was the remains of a gigantic bronze arm kilometers away, its end shattered and visibly lacking… what, exactly?
Trying to remember what the left arm was supposed to hold, Jacob focused inwards on his memory, finding nothing but a hole within. Through database after databsae he searched and he searched, realizing there was a gaping crater where the last twelve hours should be — it began after the flooding of the servers and ended just minutes prior to this moment with him waking up. Once more, he looked towards the severed appendage, noticing clean and holy apparatus at its end. Or, rather, a lack thereof.
And that was when he felt a sharp pain ripple through his forehead.
Trying to avoid it by closing his eyes, the believer was greeted by a light to dense he could feel his servers literally sever themselves in response to this amount of information, making him let out a sad whimper of agony. It burnt like hell itself, skinning each part of the being that surrounded his soul away layer after layer, until there was nothing left than what made him who he was. Seeing the way in, the light entered, dancing around with a dance of harmony and clockwork.
And that was when he remembered.
A set of five images — nay, experiences — each more confusing than the last one. He saw as the four remaining pilots brought forth their keys, activating their ANSWER in a last-ditch effort to overcome their opponents as their machine become God. He smelt the explosion of reality tear apart the beast and the metal giant as it transcended humanity for one final time, bringing a spark of Mekhane into contact with the physical world. He tasted the light, no, the unbroken presence of something greater, engulfing the vehicle in its blessing and smile. He heard as that entity touched him, sewing the severed connections in his brain one by one with its own, caring hands, un-shattering his soul. And then, at the very end, he felt his being be forced to live once more, as it was cast away from the collective consciousness that surrounded his Master.
And then it all stopped.
With a sharp breath, he opened his eyes, bursting forward in his ruined prison. Jacob touched his forehead again, realizing the presence was gone. Turning his eyes towards the open sea for a second time, he noticed the arm was no longer there, now replaced with some distant memory, a long-gone promise of peace among… someone. He didn't know what it all meant, but he was okay with that.
As the birds chirped and the sun burned, he turned his sight at the sky directly above him. Suddenly, it was broken down by the rippling of a trillion drones, descending for him and his brethren from the Heavens of unity. For a single moment, he smiled, recognizing the unmistakable signature of Mother Hedwig, radiating with faith unmatched by anyone.
And as the woman took him in his arms, carrying Jacob away, he looked down towards the unbroken Colossus. He looked as the forces of god picked up the remaining five, treating them as if they were and always had been their allies. As if they were them.
And, for that single moment, he thought they were right.

The Colossi were constructed in Her Schema.
The Colossi were constructed to defend.
We drank deep the silver blood of MEKHANE.
Her sacrifice was not in vain.


Foreword: Due to the island's near-total isolation for over nine hundred years, the mythological tradition of Hy-Brasil appears both alien and familiar to outside observers. Foundation mythologists have noted numerous similarities between Brasilic folklore and the wider Celtic canon, with such recurring themes as love, death, vengeance and betrayal. The following is a brief compilation of early Brasilic legends, many of which are known or believed to predate the more established Dyrmudic Cycle1.
While literature from this era remains scarce, many of these tales have survived due to the island's rich tradition of oral storytelling, and have been translated and summarized by the Foundation Department of Mythology and Folkloristics.
- Dr. Lemuel M. Plunkett

The Laughing Stone

The Laughing Stone

The Laughing Stone, which sits atop the hill of Sliobmoir and overlooks the river Deoira, has been integral to Brasilic coronation rituals for centuries prior to the Day of the Ravens2. In antiquity, it is recounted that the revered menhir would erupt with joyous laughter once the island's true king set his foot upon it, while remaining silent in the presence of all pretenders. The Laughing Stone is believed to have originated as a gift from the gods during a tumultuous period in Brasil's early history where the island had no clear ruler, and was presented in the hopes of ushering a new era of peace and unity.
The most widely known story concerning the Laughing Stone is thought to date back to the late sixth century, and offers an explanation as to why the once-mirthful stone is now permanently silent. During this era, Brasil was ruled by the high king Fionbir the Grizzled, whose only son, Cormaic (also known by the epithet of Feasógtin3) was slain in battle, with his remains never recovered. In honour of his hirsute heir, Fionbir vowed that he would never shave his face again, and some fourteen years later, he himself was dead after tripping over his own long silver beard. The Grizzled King's expected successor was his nephew Ronain, although before the coronation could take place, matters were complicated by the arrival of Nyall and Eimen, two brothers who had ventured on horseback from the island's northern reaches.
Nyall, the older of the two brothers, was a man of fierce cunning who had long dreamt of being king. After catching word of Fionbir's demise whispered among the reeds, Nyall seized his opportunity and disguised himself as the late prince Cormaic. So determined was he to steal the throne that Nyall cut off one hand and plucked out one eye, creating the illusion that he had been wounded in combat. Finally, with his own spilled blood, Nyall dyed his full beard a bright red, completing the disguise. The False Cormaic claimed to have fallen and hit his head during battle, causing him to lose all recollection of his previous life. He was then taken in by a kindly farmer (in actuality, Nyall's brother Eimen), who had shown him great hospitality over the ensuing years. Nyall claimed to have regained his memories only recently, following a dream in which he was visited by the goddess Ecna4, who informed him of his father's passing and reminded him of his royal duties.
Despite some skepticism from Ronain and the island's nobles, many believed Nyall's account to be true, and accepted his claim to the throne as genuine. Any lingering doubts were extinguished on the day of the coronation, for once the imposter laid foot upon the sacred stone's surface, the sound of uproarious laughter was heard bellowing across the hilltops. Unbeknownst to the islanders however, this was merely the final stage of Nyall's ploy: the stone had in fact remained silent throughout the ceremony, as it always did when confronted with charlatans. The laughter that was heard had instead been produced by Nyall's brother and accomplice Eimen, who had positioned himself behind a nearby tree.
The only one to witness this deception was Urla, the daughter of a palace cook. The wily young maiden had grown enamored with the fabled stone, and longed to hear its magical laugh for herself, although knew that only men of noble birth were permitted in its presence. As such, Urla had journeyed to the hallowed hilltop alone in the early hours of the morning, and was hidden from behind a boulder when she witnessed the two men's treachery. After returning to the palace, Urla was initially too afraid to tell anyone of what she had seen. She would eventually confide in her mother Maed, who calmed the girl's nerves and assured her that she knew exactly what to do.
That evening, the men sat down to drink and feast in honour of their new king. At the end of their meal, Maed crept behind the drunken Eimen, who had been rewarded with a knighthood for his supposed hospitality towards the long-lost king. Using a feather plucked from that evening's goose, Maed tickled Eimen on the back of the neck, causing him to laugh loudly and heartily. Recognizing his laughter as identical to that supposedly produced by the stone, the noblemen knew that they had been played for fools. Prince Ronain was coronated, and in recognition of her service, Urla was invited to attend the ceremony atop Sliobmoir. Here, she heard the stone's true laugh, which proved to be just as enchanting as in the stories she was told as a youth. It was here that the grateful Ronain proposed to her, with Urla becoming the island's next queen.
The rightful king showed no mercy towards Nyall and his brother. As punishment, Ronain decreed that both men should be crushed to death by the same stone whose name they had sullied, and it was done. While the islanders celebrated, the Laughing Stone was displeased - for it had been offered in the name of peace, and was not intended for such barbaric use. For three days and three nights, the rock wept and wailed ceaselessly. On each day, King Ronain sent one of the island's finest merrymakers atop Sliobmoir in an attempt to raise its sunken spirits (the poet, the fiddler and the jester, respectively), although their efforts proved fruitless. The mournful stone continued to sob inconsolably until every last drop of blood had been cleansed from its surface, its tears forming the river Deoira in the process. While the Laughing Stone remains an essential part of modern coronations, it has not been heard to laugh since.

The Seal Folk

Brasilic loch

The Selkies or Seal Folk are a mystical race of aquatic shapeshifters who feature prominently in a number of Brasilic fables and folktales. As in similar cultures5, these creatures are imagined as being capable of changing between seal and human form (usually that of an attractive young woman) by removing their leathery skins. The most common motif of such stories involves mortal men who seek to marry a selkie, often by stealing their sealskin6, thereby trapping them in their human form.
One such story tells of an earnest and hard-working young farmer named Domnal. One spring morning, Domnal sighted one of the spellbinding seal-maidens washing her long, flowing locks in the waters of a nearby river. Charmed by the young man's presence, the selkie beckoned him closer, although the love-struck Domnal initially found himself too shy to approach her. The farmer instead returned home, where he told his brother, the boorish and slovenly Bryndub, of the marvellous encounter. While skeptical, Bryndub decided to humor his younger brother, and insisted that Domnal accompany him back to the river so that he could see this supposed enchantress for himself. After laying eyes on the captivating creature sat before him, Bryndub was instantly smitten, his brother's words having failed to capture the full extent of her magnificent beauty.
Thinking fast, Bryndub seized the selkie's skin from the rock where it lay, and demanded that she become his wife. Much to Domnal's disappointment, the seal-maiden at first appeared to accept his brother's brash proposal. However, the selkie noted that the air had grown colder, and reasoned that she could not possibly marry Bryndub if he were to fall sick before their wedding day. She beguilingly suggested that her husband-to-be wear her magical sealskin to keep himself warm, to which he thoughtlessly agreed. Once Bryndub donned the leathery coat it began to expand, enveloping his entire body and changing him into a seal. No longer interested in his selkie bride, the newly-transformed Bryndub instead succumbed to his lust for the sea, and swam out to the ocean, never to be seen again. The selkie instead went on to marry Domnal, and the two lived happily ever after.
Another tale is that of the fisherman Eochu, who was deserted by his wife Griana after she fell for a travelling merchant, leaving him sole provider for their three young daughters. One day, whilst fishing for salmon, Eochu began to weep from his loneliness, and his tears caught the attention of a curious selkie. Like Eochu, she too was alone, having lost her husband and their three young sons to the cold chitin claws of a ravenous sea monster. Bonding over their shared heartbreak, the pair were swiftly married, with the seal-maiden proving herself a devoted stepmother to Eochu's daughters, regularly entertaining them with songs and stories of the sea. Although the two were very much in love, Eochu grew increasingly paranoid that his bride of the brine might one day depart like Griana before her, and return to a life below the waves.
Desperate to prevent his fears from being realised, Eochu first wrapped his wife's sealskin in cloth, and placed it inside a locked chest beneath their bed. Still unsatisfied, he next hid the chest deep within a nearby cave, although this too failed to ease his concerns. One night, Eochu awoke from uneasy sleep, and decided that the only way of ensuring his wife never set fin in water again was to destroy her magical skin once and for all. As his family slept, Eochu headed back for the cave, where he set chest, cloth and skin alight. His mind finally at peace, Eochu headed home, where he was greeted by his wailing daughters, who had woken to the agonised cries of their seaborne stepmother, now reduced to naught but ash and bone. The devastated Eochu collected his wife's earthly remains, which he scattered over the waves of the loch where they found each other, and did not marry again7.
Doubtlessly, the most infamous of Brasil's selkie tales is that of the hard-hearted hunter named Duchad. Longing for nothing more than a son to call his own, Duchad found no partner among his own people due to his drunkenness and violent temper. Recalling the earlier legends of Domnal and Eochu, the hunter concluded that if he could find no earthborn spouse, one spawned of the gentle sea current would do just as well. Duchad set off for the island's northern shore, where it was said that during low tide the Seal Folk could be seen in their human forms, dancing merrily to the rhythm of the waves upon the ocean's shimmering surface. Over the next year Duchad spent an hour each day waiting patiently by the seafront, before finally spotting one of the majestic maidens sleeping peacefully atop a bed of seaweed, with her coat lying unattended.
After stealing her precious pelt, Duchad forced the young selkie into marriage, despite her desperate pleas that she already had a lover among her own kind waiting for her beneath the waves. Some months later, the stranded selkie had become pregnant with the hunter's child, though once his long-awaited son arrived, she refused to allow Duchad to set eyes on him. Pushing his wife aside, Duchad was horrified to discover that his son was neither fully boy nor beast, but a hybrid with the fin and flippers of a seal, and the face of a human infant. So repulsed was Duchad by the child's appearance that despite his wife's howls and pleas, he seized the boy in a fit of rage and carried him to nearby Loch Domhain, where he drowned him in its murky waters.
Realizing now that a seaborne spouse could bear him no human offspring, Duchad returned his wife's magical coat, demanding that she retreat to the ocean, and never again set foot on dry land. However, the distraught selkie no longer held any desire to return to the sea, and instead wandered deep into the woods. In her sorrow she fashioned her own sealskin into a rope, and hanged herself from the tallest tree she should find. Three nights later, Duchad was startled from his slumber by a shrill cry, not unlike that of a wailing infant, coming from Loch Domhain. After inspecting the source of the screams and finding only pebbles and pond scum, the hunter turned for home, before feeling the cold, wet grip of a single webbed hand around his ankle. The hunter was dragged helplessly to the briny depths, with the last sight he saw being the vengeful gaze of the son he had slain.
To this day, the area surrounding Loch Domhain remains avoided for fear of rousing the phocine phantom that dwells within its accursed waters. One subsequent account tells of a foolish boy who strayed too close to the wailing loch, and was similarly drawn to a watery grave. At his family's request, the future queen Arienn8 boldly sang for the wrathful wraith, temporarily charming it so that the boy's body could be retrieved for a proper burial. As a show of gratitude the boy's mother, a talented seamstress, presented Arienn with an enchanted white gown that would never tear or stain. This exceptional garment would ultimately play a role in Arienn's demise, whereby a hungry fox, having heard her heavenly song and seen the flutter of her fine white robes, mistook her for a swan.

Footnotes
1. Term applied to the body of legends documenting the life and death of the semimythical figure Dyrmud the Ageless, who is supposedly responsible for the island's dimensionally transcendental status.
2. Refers to the cataclysmic sequence of events that resulted in Brasil being sealed off from the wider world, thought to have taken place between the ninth and tenth centuries CE.
3. 'Fire-beard', a name derived from Cormaic's thick, ginger facial hair.
4. Brasilic deity associated with the concept of knowledge, memories, and poetic inspiration.
5. Most notably, that of north Scotland and the Outer Hebrides.
6. Categorized by the Aarne–Thompson–Uther Index as ATU 402 ("The Animal Bride").
7. This story is known to be the source of the Brasilic saying, never burn a selkie's skin, a rough English equivilent being: never look a gift horse in the mouth.
8. Fourth of the seven ill-fated wives of King Dyrmud the Ageless, who is recounted as possessing the sweetest voice in Hy-Brasil.

More from this author...


div

OCCULT ORIENTATION:
DEPT. OF PRESUMPTIVE DIVINATION

The knife drew a foreboding red line in its wake as it slipped through the underbelly of the goat. Practiced hands connected the horizontal gash to two previous, verticle incisions. As blood began to seep from the wound, the knife was pushed inward, twisting as it did so. Within the body, the cutting edge slashed along the entrails, effortlessly disconnecting the tumbled mess from the corpse it hitherto nourished. The hooked back edge of the knife embraced the liver in its curve, and pulling outwards, eviscerated the organs into the waiting receptacle.
You watch as the bloody mess spills forth into the shallow copper bowl. The sharp scent of rust rises in intensity as whisps of steam vanish off the red, writing forms. Your pulse quickens in fearful sympathy as you focus on the slow seepage of blood pooling in the basin. Its collection there is a mockery of your still-beating heart: circulation becoming stagnation.
It is the face of the woman that pulls you from your distraction. The one that wields the knife possesses a body defined by tension: her muscles hover at the ready, conserving strength, moving only when needed with absolute precision and purpose. Her face leans in, angular and sharp — one eye is clouded grey — the other fixes itself upon you in a gaze of intense emerald-blue. Flecks of gold give depth and substance to the otherwise unnerving uniformity of the iris.
"What does it mean?"
Her voice cuts through the silence, to your core. You fail to respond.
She hands you a metal stylus, nearly a foot long. One tip of the device ends in a gentle nub, the other a narrow point.
"What does it mean?" she repeats. "You have until the viscera cools."
She turns to the door, carrying the still-dripping carcass with her, leaving you alone with the copper bowl and the pressures of expected prognostication.

With the click of the door closing, you turn to the work before you. Now — sequestered from the expectations of rational thought and deductive reasoning that gather outside, ears pressed against the division between this room and the rest of the Foundation facilities — you can begin. Breathing slowly and steadily, you prepare yourself for the influx of information. You seize onto the details before you, taking in the intricacies of form and shape, colour and presence. As you command yourself to capture the ephemeral and bloody contortions of the warm, wet air, you hold the moment in your mind, extend it into infinite stillness, and from that extrapolate meaning and significance. Something, anything: a sign, a peculiarity, an implication, the spectral hauntings of a dream.
The mishappen heap refutes you. The viscera appears oblivious or uncaring to your initial grasp for meaning and understanding.
Nothing comes to you. No meaning or omen.
It shakes you, slightly; you didn't expect an immediate revelation, but one always hopes. You resolve yourself: where immediate divulgence fails, methodical inspection may yet succeed.
You turn to your pack, withdrawing a heavy tome embossed in golden fillagree. In it are tables and charts, maps and accounts. The work is a compendium of interpretation and knowledge. Its structure is disorderly, an affect of its pre-scientific methods. You flip to a relevant page, lines of small-point text are arranged across its span:

BLOOD:

If the blood runs swiftly, the passing of the soul will be quick.
If the blood coagulates in a solid form, the situation is dire.
If the blood appears vicious, sanctity may be preserved.
If the blood pulses with vigour, the blessings are many.
If the blood…

VAPOURS:

If the vapours rise in a North-Easterly direction, the harvest will surely fail.
If the vapours collect low to the basin, the outcome will be inevitable.
If the vapours smell sweat, the water will flow.
If the vapours dissipate swiftly, the death fortold is imminent.
If the vapours…

ENTRAILS:

If the entrails shape the head of a lamb, the time for penitence is at hand.
If the entrails discharge yellow bile, the herd will die.
If the entrails are engorged, the ruling is just.
If the entrails taste of pure wine, give thanks.
If the entrails…

You pull your eyes away from the repetitions of columns and rows. You do not know how long it has been since the test was laid before you. The swollen mass has cooled somewhat after its forced expulsion, and the urgency of your situation bears heavier upon you with each passing moment. As your gaze sweeps from the typeface to the dish and back again, you strain to formulate a clear relation: hoping that from desire prognosis may be achieved. But the connections you grasp at are fleeting, refuted by further study and examination. The process is one of doing and being undone. Those tentative claims are dismissed as projections. You stand at the cusp of pre-scientific understanding, built on ancient methodologies. The process isolates you from the present, the modern. Time becomes a flat circle, where through the past the future must be known.
Yet it remains unclear; the eternal limbo of disknowledge perpetuates itself, refusing to collapse into a resolution of past, present, and future.
In the face of futility, you redouble your efforts. Technique and hope align in the desperate struggle to recognize a meaning that eludes you.
The uncertainty endures.

The door opens, as the woman walks in. Her tall frame moves softly across the stone floor, until it comes to a rest before the now-cool innards gleaming in the polished metal of the basin. Your attempts to avoid her piercing gaze are futile, as she turns her eye to you and inquires:
"What does it mean?"
"I," you begin - sensing the futility of lying would only draw more light to your failure. "I don't know."
She nods. Picks up the basin from the stone plinth.
"What you have seen is uncertainty. You will see it again. This is the first lesson."
Confusion seeps between her words and tumbles through your skull, driving out its previous fixation on knowledge and meaning. Only her words remain.
"Disorder, misunderstanding, errors in interpretation — these are constant. The future you saw is your own, the mistaken for one external. Time and time again, you will fail: you will misconstrue and misconstruct. You will see things that do not come to pass - not as you know them to - and miss things that do. Ours is a preoccupation with failure, it always has been and always will, and we must accept that. It is a burden and a freedom. To know with certainty all that will be, that is to lose yourself in causation. We watch the currents of the river, dip our hands and drink of its water. When we wade we remain close to shore, for to swim too deep is to be caught in its currents and become a vessel through which action occurs, rather than a being who acts."
"So if all I've seen in my failure, why continue?" You ask, pulled from the edge of defeat, awaiting revelation.
"Because you tried, because you wanted to know, because — sometimes — you will be right."
She presses the basin into your hands. The metal is cold; the viscera no longer haunting or challenging. You see, through the coverage of blood, your face reflected in a reddened glow.
"Come," she answers. "There is more work to be done."


By Jasiu06 and Draven Addams

NOTICE FROM THE FOUNDATION RECORDS AND INFORMATION SECURITY ADMINISTRATION
The following file serves as a general historical reference. The information contained herein may be false and fabricated to some extent, but despite this fact, it represents the official current version of the Foundation.
— James Moore, Site-120's General RAISA Chairman

Introduction

Meeting of members of the Polish Containment Project with the contemporary O5-█, 1931

The Polish Containment Project was an initiative founded in February 1914 by the now deceased O5-11.1 Its main purpose was to investigate the activity of Fae (Homo sapiens sidhe) and to confirm the existence as well as subsequent preservation of the anomalous Free Port of Esterberg (later classified as SCP-5373) largely inhabited by the previously mentioned Fae, located near Częstochowa in the former Kingdom of Poland.
Over time, however, the Project's goals evolved, and its primary mission became to establish a foothold for the Foundation in the newly formed post-World War I Republic of Poland. Initial plans to secure SCP-5373 with classic methods failed, due to the protection and establishment of laws guaranteeing the independence of the Free Ports by the League of Nations in 1923.2 Despite this, however, the Foundation did happen to violate these laws several times and entered Esterberg unauthorized; however, aside from these few incidents, the Foundation abandoned its plans to secure SCP-5373 and focused on monitoring it and conducting unarmed research explorations in the city, which were allowed by a loophole in the law.
The Polish Containment Project was finally disbanded and incorporated into the Foundation in October 1945 after the end of World War II, also known in the anomalous world as the VII Occult War.3

O5-11 - The Visionary [DECEASED]
Male. Age unknown. Of Jewish and Slavic origin. In his lifetime, a figure strongly associated with the occult, esotericism and thaumaturgy. Responsible for the establishment of the Department of Ontokinetics, of which he was the original director. Pioneer in the field of modern life extension using thaumaturgy.
Responsible for significantly expanding the Foundation's influence around the world, particularly in Central and Eastern Europe; initiated, among other things, the Polish Containment Project in 1914. Fierce critic of the use of human personnel, especially D-Class, in experiments.
[DETAILS OF THE DEATH OF FORMER O5-11 ARE RESTRICTED TO LEVEL 5 OR HIGHER PERSONNEL]

Structure
During its existence, the Polish Containment Project had its own organizational structure and was divided into several specialized units responsible for various aspects of its functioning.

► Key Units of the Polish Containment Project

▼ Key Units of the Polish Containment Project

Polish Containment Project Director: The person responsible for coordinating and managing the activities of the Project, this position also entails serving as the Director of Site-120 which is its command headquarters. Reporting directly to O5-11, the individuals holding this position were, respectively, Hannah Rivera from 1914 to 1916 and Raia Micheals from 1916 until the end of the Project.

Tactical Operations Command: The military unit of the Project, responsible for protecting Project facilities, securing anomalies, and even neutralizing them in extreme cases. All Operational Formations operating within the Polish Containment Project fall under the Command.

Unit of External Affairs and Diplomacy: Responsible for all Foundation contacts with the Polish government, as well as anomalous communities. Their tasks also included recruiting staff for the Foundation in Poland, intelligence, searching for new anomalies, and maintaining secrecy about Project activities as well as spreading disinformation.

Unit of Applied and Theoretical Sciences: The experimentation and research division of the Project. Its tasks included developing new technology and equipment for the Project, as well as studying the anomalies it secured. They were often far more inclined than the rest of the Foundation to resort to more esoteric methods, which was related to O5-11 overseeing the Project.

Unit of Containment and Maintenance: Responsible for the maintenance and upkeep of the Project's equipment and taking care of the containment of anomalies secured by the Project.

Unit of Administration and Records: Responsible for all administration, accounting, logistics and management of Project activities. They were also in charge of maintaining the Project's archives, as well as researching various archival materials in order to gain information on new and already secured anomalies.

History
The Polish Containment Project existed for about 31 years, which can be further divided into three general periods lasting respectively:
1914-1918
The project was initiated by O5-11 in February 1914. At its top, Hannah Rivera, who had been the Director of Site-30, was placed in the role of administrator. The expedition under her leadership set out for the Kingdom of Poland in June 1914 a month before the start of World War I, which greatly hampered the original mission of the Project. Despite this, in early 1916 they were able to establish that Fae activity was concentrated around the Częstochowa region. During the search for the Free Port, SCP-52924 (then designated as PL-X0R38/0124) was accidentally discovered, around which the Provisional Site-120 has been established. That same year, a group of Fae terrorists known as GoI-120 ("Triumviraté") attacked it, causing some damage to SCP-5292 and killing Project Director Hannah Rivera.
Raia Micheals, formerly head of the Department of Science and a specialist in Theology, was chosen to lead the Project after Hannah's death. Also in May of that year, at Raia's request, Site-120 became an official facility,5 where the Command of the Polish Containment Project was located. In the following years, the Foundation focused on monitoring Esterberg and made several unsuccessful attempts to seize and secure it.
1919-1938
After the end of World War I and the establishment of an independent Polish state, the goals of the Project significantly expanded. At that time, it began to function as an agency of the Foundation dealing with anomalies in the Republic of Poland. It was during this period that the Project grew to its largest size in terms of staff and anomalies under its jurisdiction. The Foundation also abandoned its attempts to secure/acquire Esterberg due to the laws protecting anomalous Free Ports established by the League of Nations in 1923, but despite this, there have been several incidents involving their violation by the Foundation.
During those years, the Project also encountered many anomalous organizations whose activity was greatly increased by the zenith of the so-called Paranormal Renaissance already underway since the end of the Sixth Occult War, the more important of which are listed below.

► Major Groups of Interest Active in Poland at the Time

▼ Major Groups of Interest Active in Poland at the Time

Chopinian Cult: A religious and artistic cult praising Frederic Chopin founded by Antoni Bukowski (1897-1940) w 19██. The main goal of the cult is to "Continue the work of the great composer".
Relations: Neutral

The Polish Ministry of Occult Affairs: An organ of the government of the Second Republic of Poland dealing with occult, esoteric and anomalous matters. The Foundation and the MOA often worked together, as the goals of both organizations were similar. There were, however, incidents associated mainly with the Foundation's violation of the Anomalous Freeport Protection Act of 1923.
Relations: Friendly

Polish Anomalous Mushroompicking Association (PZGA): A group of enthusiasts dedicated to collecting, researching, and trading anomalous fungi. The origins of the organization date back to the turn of the 18th and 19th centuries.
Relations: Neutral

Triumviraté: A group of Fae (Homo sapiens sidhe) terrorists seeking to reclaim human territories for their species. Formed after the events of [REDACTED]. They are responsible for carrying out the attack on Site-120 in 1916.
Relations: Hostile

WWW: Unrecognized organization. Responsible for several attacks on Foundation's facilities, usually connected with extra-dimensional anomalies. They likely possess a large arsenal of advanced paratechnological weapons.
Relations: Hostile

Beginning in 1933, the Foundation initiated the evacuation of most of its European assets, including those of the Polish Containment Project, to America and other safer locations due to the possibility of another global conflict in Europe following Adolf Hitler's rise to power in Germany. On the eve of the outbreak of war, only administrative, security, and maintenance personnel from the Polish Containment Project remained in Poland.
1939-1945
The Foundation officially remained neutral during the Second World War/VII Occult War until 1944, but in spite of this, the then overhead section of Site-120 and many other Project facilities were destroyed by bombing. In September 1944, the Foundation officially joined the War on the side of the Allies when Konrad Weiss, head of Obskurakorps research, was arrested and the AOI and the Foundation learned that Obskurakorps was planning to perform a powerful occult ritual known as the "Rite of Solomon". The Foundation, together with the AOI, succeeded in stopping its execution in Operation Aeon Dawn in January 1945. The remnants of the Project remaining in Poland during this period began to assist the Polish Underground State, which after the defeat of the Warsaw Uprising moved its capital to Częstochowa and used Esterberg as its base.
Also worth mentioning is that during these years, the previously mentioned Polish Ministry of Occult Affairs mostly emigrated to Three Portlands6 where its members helped co-found the AOI. They also contributed significantly to the Allied victory in 1943 during the Battle of Three Portlands against Obskuracorps commando forces. The attack occurred in order to sabotage the supply route between the U.S. and Great Britain, in which the Portlands played a significant role.
The project was finally dissolved and absorbed into the structures of the Foundation in November 1945 several months after the end of World War II, also known as the VII Occult War. Negotiations with the emerging government of the Polish People's Republic also began at that time in order to arrange a comfortable position for the Foundation in postwar Poland.

Dissolution and further activities of the Foundation in Poland

Current logo of Site-120

The Polish Containment Project was officially dissolved and absorbed into the standard structures of the Foundation on October 21, 1945 by a unanimous decision of the Overwatch Command. The Foundation also began negotiations with the newly formed government of the People's Republic of Poland, which guaranteed the Foundation a well-placed position in future years. Despite this, the Foundation's activity was to some extent diminished by the activities of the GRU Division "P" or Poland's ZM "Witch Slayer" Division, however, the situation was much better there than in other Warsaw Pact countries such as East Germany or Czechoslovakia.
Initially, Esterberg was inclined to cooperate with the new communist government, which guaranteed the city a great deal of independence from the latter. The Polish People's Republic officially called Esterberg "Tysiąclecie Górne"; this name is still used to some extent today. These relations, however, deteriorated significantly in the 1950s.
The former Director of the Polish Containment Project (who was also the Director of Site-120), Raia Micheals, eventually died in 1959, being replaced by Site-120 Director MacCarthy,7 who had previously been Assistant Director, as well as the head of the Tactical Operations Command during the last years of the Project's existence. Site-120 continues to serve as the main base of operations for the Foundation's activities in the Republic of Poland.

Footnotes
1. See attached document below.
2. Later revised by the Global Occult Coalition in 1945.
3. A global occult conflict largely running parallel to World War II focusing on battles between the Allied Occult Initiative (AOI) transformed into the GOC after the war and the Ahnenerbe Obskurakorps which was the paranormal wing of the SS.
4. A vast underground non-Euclidean library containing approximately 3,000,000 books (SCP-5292-1) written in many ancient languages and containing pictorial representations of various anomalous phenomena, objects, and entities; the library is guarded by SCP-5292-2, an ethereal humanoid entity that is its genius loci, claiming to be the brother of the biblical Noah.
5. It is noteworthy that this was the first official permanent facility of the Foundation in Poland.
6. An anomalous enclave located in a pocket dimension, connected to the Isle of Portland in the United Kingdom and the cities of Portland, Oregon and Portland, Maine located in the United States.
7. who, upon his death in 1984, was replaced by the Board of Directors still in place today.

| From 120's Archives |


…leading to the injury of Ms. Patel and her sister. Foundation assets embedded in the Rapid City Daily Journal intercepted the response call that evening and alerted Site-11 personnel, who dispatched…

Claire was never late.
You couldn't be, as a journalist. Interviews were already a giant pain for everyone involved, and they were already likely to hate you, so why make things any worse? She either annoyed or exhausted or misquoted her living sources; the least she could do was always be punctual for them.
Not that she was interviewing the Comcast lady, but still.
Claire took the last corner a little too sharply and saw the shiny white Comcast truck, already parked in her usual spot. Dammit. She pulled up behind it and jumped out, bag clutched to her hip, face flushed in the late afternoon haze.
The woman in the driver's seat was scrolling Twitter with a bored expression as Claire approached the van. She thought about knocking but decided to wave.
“Hi, are you Jasmine?” Claire half-shouted through the glass, and the woman put the phone away. “I'm so sorry about the wait…” she said, swallowing the words as the woman opened her door. She wore a corporate polo shirt and jeans, dear god, in this weather? Claire already felt her dress sticking to her right hip, damp where her heavy canvas bag sandwiched the fabric against her skin.
The woman glanced at her bookbag - photocopies stuffed inside, peeking out the top flap - and Claire fought the urge to clutch it tighter.

Claire lingered in her doorway for a second, letting the cool air chill the sheen of sweat on her skin.
“Can you point me to the router please.” Jasmine said, only half engaged. Claire stepped aside, and the woman followed her gesture to a desk in the corner. She ran through her mental checklist again - everything important was tucked away in the hamper, under her sweaters, or in the canvas bag at her hip. Not that this woman was investigating her, but still.
Claire hovered in the room, fiddled with her phone. This was the room with the window unit, but was it rude to stay and watch the woman work? Would it draw suspicion? Outside, someone walked past her apartment door, lingered in the sweltering hallway, then turned a key and vanished into their own A/C. Claire sat down on her recliner and tried not to watch the other woman too closely.
“When did you say the problem started.”
“Oh, um. I think two weeks ago. My speeds are usually good, but it'll all just stop without warning for a minute, maybe ninety seconds. And then it picks right back up.”
“mmhmm.” The woman plugged in a device Claire didn't recognize. Did Comcast employees carry ID badges?
“…I did some reading about it online, just poking around…you don't think something like…like a keylogger, or spyware could be causing it? Just a crazy thought.”
“My job's just to check the hardware, ma'am.”
“Sure, sure, nevermind.”
“I'm not authorized to give advice about cybersecurity.”
“Of course. Sorry I asked. Forget it.” Claire's nerves were all firing now. She tried to relax, sink into the folds of her childhood armchair, but the details of today's trip were crowding out everything else. She reviewed the facts:

Ball Corporation was absolutely hiding something.
Gloria and her colleagues didn't die where Ball said they did.
An aerospace lab lost power around the time of the gas leak – at the opposite end of the complex.
Someone very skilled had fabricated the incident report.
ITAR compliance sucked.

Which made sense. Can't have journalists poking around where they're not supposed to, after all.
Claire tried to parse it all out. Gloria had worked in sales, for aluminum cups at sporting events. She'd traveled for work. What was she doing in the aerospace buildings? What kind of industrial gas caused burns that looked like an animal attack? And why was Ball trying to hush it all up? After the code violations, OSHA lawsuit, the individual settlement — it didn't seem like Ball had anything else to lose. But if this was the hit they were willing to take to keep their deeper secret…well, Claire didn't like the implications.
She pressed her forehead against the cool pleather of the headrest. Today had answered one question with five more, and she'd have to wait for answers; she'd spent the last of her PTO on this trip and wouldn't have more for weeks. She was still catching up after the funeral and court cases, and the settlement had been massive but she couldn't live off it forever.
Nor should she. If ITAR was involved, there was a nonzero chance this went deeper than Ball Corporation. Claire had never felt like a paranoid person necessarily, but people who quit their jobs to sleuth government secrets full-time rarely found happiness. Best to keep a low profile.
The door slammed, and Claire jerked out of her half-doze: Jasmine must have gone for something from the truck. Stupid to be afraid, really. If suits were after her, they wouldn't send a checked-out network maintenance tech. Or were they just gathering info for now?

The Comcast woman fiddled with the router for another 10 minutes. Claire tried to tune it out, sorting some recent photos on her phone to pass the time. Ever since her sister's death - and the obituary picture snafu - Claire had tried to keep her photos organized. She didn't know why, but it helped her talk about Gloria. Helped to organize her thoughts.
“Can I have your phone to finish the reset.” Claire looked up from a photo of the Ball Corporation campus to see Jasmine's blank expression and outstretched hand. Fighting the knee-jerk urge to hide the photo immediately, she closed all apps as calmly as she could.
“…Do you need my phone?”
“Yeah it's still connecting and causing problems. I can't reset until I've cleared the wi-fi settings.”
“Oh, well, I can do that—”
“It's faster if I just do it,” said Jasmine, now clearly impatient. That did it. Yelling or intimidation, Claire could handle. She was an interviewer: she'd faced down tyrants before. But inconveniencing someone else at their job? No thanks. She handed it over and fought to calm her overactive imagination.
Half a minute later there was a knock at the door, of all things. Claire tore her eyes away from Jasmine's hands to check the peephole - no suits, no S.W.A.T. team, just a short middle-aged woman in a Daily Journal polo. Claire didn't recognize her, but then she hadn't really been spending much time at the office lately.
“Hello, Claire? This is Natalie, from the office…we know you haven't been feeling well recently. Just wanted to drop a little something off.” Her heart was beating so quickly. Why would someone impersonate a coworker? If they'd gotten this far, she was already a goner, right?
She opened the door.
“Hi there! Claire? Nice to meet you – Natalie Burman, from HR.” The woman was sunny, right at the edge of cloying. She held a tupperware full of brownies, maybe poisoned Claire what the hell is wrong with you, snap out of it
Claire stared at her for another moment in the stale hallway air. She tried to summon the energy to turn this woman away quickly and politely, but it just wasn't there, so she invited Natalie inside. The HR woman set the brownies on her coffee table and sat down, barely covering half a couch cushion. She turned her kind face back towards Claire, then focused it on her full-force.
“I just wanted to say how sorry I am, truly.” Oh. Oh no. She'd thought she finished this dance months ago. Now even the new hires knew her as the Dead Sister Lady? Was it going to follow her like this forever?
“Thanks, I really appreciate it…Natalie, right? I don't know if I've even seen you around recently.”
“Oh, no, I'm usually out in the field. Recruiter. Can't remember the last time I made the trip out to South Dakota! I'm in the area to scout a candidate.”
Claire let out a sigh she'd been holding without realizing it. “When you said HR, I…I don't know, I guess I've just been gone so often…”
“We know Gloria meant a lot to you, and that can take a long time to heal. We don't want to punish good people for feeling human. Whatever way you need to work through your experience, we want to help if we can.”
Right now she wanted to work through it in silence, thanks, but she'd never say that. At least this woman skipped the boilerplate cliches.
Your turn, Claire, move your mouth “Thanks. Yeah, it's been tough…We were close. I think about her a lot.”
“I've been where you've been – it can feel so isolating. But a lot of people go through this very same experience, all over the world.” Claire thought about her canvas bag of research and had to suppress a laugh. Maybe Natalie noticed? “Not saying your grief isn't important! More like…just remember you're not alone.”
Well, she felt alone. No answers, no closure, no family left to mourn with. Coworkers she'd abandoned to chase conspiracy theories. It had been awhile since she'd just talked.
“You said you've been here…can I ask when?”
Natalie's smile was melancholy now, but she kept it up. “Yes, my husband. Almost…27 years ago now, actually.” Claire couldn't imagine stretching her grief that far, but she also couldn't picture ever letting go.
“I'm sorry.”
“Thank you. You still feel it all the same, sometimes as fresh as the early days. But you've also developed some…'muscles' for it, I guess? It's like I've carried it around with me everywhere after so long, and I've found the best ways to keep carrying. We can get used to anything, I think.”
Claire sat in the silence, letting the cool air settle over her flushed skin, savoring the comfort of someone else's story for a brief moment. “Do you mind? If I ask how he died?”
Natalie laughed - a bubbly, inviting, church-basement-lady laugh. “It's actually a little silly - maybe ironic. He was a thrill seeker with a terribly boring desk job, so he had to get his kicks somewhere. He took all sorts of adrenaline junkie hobbies, even though I begged him not to. Skydiving, swimming with sharks, base jumping, rock climbing - you name it.”
“And there was…an accident?”
“No, no! Far from it…he had a blast every time. I fretted every weekend, but he'd always come back, elated, on top of the world. I'd breathe a sigh of relief and then we'd head into our work weeks, feeling safe again. Then one day, his lab just…burned down.”
“That's horrible! I'm so sorry!”
“I know.” She seemed lost in a memory. “What makes it so much harder is how low-profile the site was. Everyone was shocked – of everywhere to go up, it would've been the last on our lists. It made a little more sense for Gloria's site—”
Claire shivered for the first time in two months.
“—though I'm just realizing that's a terribly insensitive thing to say! Oh, I'm so sorry, Claire! Caught up in my own little world I guess, though that's no excuse.” Natalie finished, then caught the look on Claire's face and froze.
They stared at each other for an agonizing moment. Claire straightened slowly in her chair, tensing as her heart kicked into thundering overdrive. She could hear her damp skin peel off the pleather, hoped this woman wouldn't jump her before she was ready.
“Oh, shoot,” said Natalie. “That wasn't terribly professional of me. It really seemed like my story was helping, goodness knows I like to talk and we were just chatting, I got carried away, forgot we haven't been over all the details yet!”
“What. Do you know. About Gloria.” Claire's voice came out like brainfreeze, like she was hissing past a mouthful of ice: she couldn't tell if it sounded threatening or pleading.
“Claire, dear, I really am here to help, I swear–” Natalie leaned forward to touch Claire's hand, and she burst from the armchair.
“Don't touch me!” She swung wildly at the woman, turned towards the corner. She could call someone, text the most incriminating details…if she had time. Why hadn't she set up a failsafe email already? Idiot, you never should've started digging! Were the police involved? How about 911? She could call and—
Jasmine was gone - and so was her phone.
“I'm very sorry, Claire.” Natalie, still sitting on half a cushion, kept talking. Her tiny frame completely filled Claire's field of vision, and Claire couldn't look away. She smiles like mom. “I won't touch you again, I promise. And I won't tell you to calm down. I just need to explain a few more things before you do anything rash.”
Claire stood in the room, weighing her options. It was a 4th floor apartment: she'd break a leg jumping. The fire escape was loose after two years of maintenance requests. That left the front door, and the footsteps outside it right now. Two pairs of shoes, maybe more. The suits had finally come.
“My colleagues won't let you leave the apartment, but I've asked them not to come inside.” Natalie was still talking. Why was she still talking? Did she hope to talk Claire into submission? “I want to tell you about Gloria, is that okay? I think I can fill in some details for you. It might not help, but sometimes it does.”
Who was this woman? How could she smile like this, how could she be so calm, so casual? Claire had been researching this conspiracy for months, knew more than maybe anybody else…yet Natalie didn't seem even the slightest bit concerned about anything she might do. Was she really that blasé? Or was this an act?
Keep her talking. Claire needed more time to think. “Yes,” she said, “tell me everything.”
That melancholy smile again. “As much as I can. Some of it will have to stay secret.” Natalie had reached up and peeled the Daily Journal sticker off her blazer, carefully folding and putting it away as she spoke.
“Your sister worked for the same group as I do, same as my husband did, too. We work to keep things…normal, for the rest of the world. That means finding, catching, and studying anything that can break that normalcy.”
“You mean, extraterrestrials?”
“And ghosts, magic, monsters, demons…not all of them, of course, but the stories have to come from somewhere, you know. And we make sure they stay stories.”
The room felt warm, oppressively warm. She'd expected some shady military stuff, but…aliens? Magic? This was too much. It was smothering. She'd wanted answers, and here they were – more than she'd asked for, dumped at her feet.
Might as well scratch the itch before they carted her away. “My sister. What was she working on?”
“There was…there was this bird. A big one. They'd just discovered and contained it, but…it was a messy job. The MTF didn't have good intel, and they caused some damage. Gloria volunteered to lead the first tests. They didn't know enough, and were scrambling to do cleanup at the same time, so when the poor thing got upset…”
Claire sat down again and, finally, began to cry.
Natalie stopped talking. A few minutes passed in silence. Claire was grateful for the rattle of the window unit - something, at least, to cover her sniffling as she fought for composure. Someone coughed, then shifted out in the hallway…she couldn't imagine wearing a suit in this heat.
“…maybe this isn't helping. I'm sorry, dear, but I honestly don't know if you'll ever know enough to get closure. I've seen it happen a lot: we don't like mysteries, they eat away at us. You can't really know half of a terrible truth, y'know?”
Natalie reached into her purse and pulled out a single pastel yellow pill. She set it down on top of the brownies, then looked up at Claire. In spite of herself, of the chill in her bones, Claire clung to those warm brown eyes.
“This is a pill we use quite often, it's something called an ‘amnestic.' When you take it, you'll forget a few memories: our conversation, some of your deeper investigations. Other memories, the ones related to Gloria's accident, will just sort of…deprioritize. You won't forget anything about your sister, or her death. You just won't feel the burning need for answers you can't have.”
Claire would rather die. “And if I refuse?”
“I think we both know this is your best chance at happiness, dear.” It was a naked threat, they both knew it. The woman was still smiling, just as kindly – was she that good of an actor, or did she really genuinely care?
Claire didn't want to die. But forgetting Gloria, even the smallest detail… “All due respect, ma'am, but if that's happiness, then it can fuck off. If my choice is this versus some…deep state prison or…or something else, well…so be it.”
Natalie was all business, for the first time. She stared straight into Claire. “Are you absolutely certain, dear?”
“…yes. Yes, I'm certain.”
Claire couldn't hold her gaze. She supposed this was a brave thing to do, but it didn't feel brave. Mostly stupid. Executed alone in her muggy apartment, by a 4'11” spy in a polo shirt. She felt very feverish all of a sudden. When they found her body, would the pit stains be visible?
“Well, I'm glad to hear it.”
What?
Natalie laughed. “I've seen some of your work, you know. You're good – quietly good. Consistent. We prefer it that way. The genius researchers and hotshot task force captains, they're necessary of course. But you should never hire for talent alone. My husband used to say, ‘You can win battles with brilliance, but nations are built on consistency.' It's helped me decide quite a lot, over the years.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Claire, dear. I wasn't lying earlier. I really am a recruiter. And I'm offering you a job.”
“You were threatening me thirty seconds ago.”
“I wasn't lying then, either. I don't think you'll be happier, working for us. Heavens, I think we'd all be happier doing something else. But it's got to be done by somebody, right, and…well, I guess you and I are the kind who can't help ourselves.”
“No way. This is some sort of trick, or sting operation, or something else. You think I'm just going to take your word for it, join some CIA cult, sign on with the people who killed my sister and covered it up–”
“Gloria died because we didn't have advance warning. Because someone like you wasn't watching civilian channels, couldn't catch it right away and get our teams as much info as possible. But you'd be surprised how much a single investigative journalist can uncover, with the right connections. You'd also be surprised by how long we've been trying to get someone reliable to cover the Great Plains.”
Natalie's smile was bitter for a second. “But you didn't ask to hear me whine about my job. We liked your work at Ball, and we'd rather hire you than wipe you. You'll like the pay, and the benefits. Best therapists on the planet. I promise, sometimes it truly is that simple, even in the world I come from.”
Claire really didn't know what to say to that. “Why?” was all she could muster.
Natalie stood, picked up the yellow pill and left a business card in its place. “It wasn't just platitudes earlier, by the way. You truly aren't alone. People out there go through what you're going through – exactly what you're going through – every day. They have been for a lot longer than 27 years. Maybe, thanks to you, someone else won't have to.” She really did smile like their mother. “Like I said. You find a way to keep carrying.”
Claire watched her walk to the door and pull it open. Jasmine was standing outside, plus a short man in jeans and a soccer jersey. They didn't look terribly scary. They didn't look like much of anything. So much for the suits, she thought, thoroughly dumbfounded, as Natalie passed back Claire's phone. If it wasn't bugged before, it certainly was now. She wondered why that didn't bother her more.
“Call me whenever you're ready to talk. Let me know how you liked the brownies! Oh, and one more thing.” Natalie said, stepping into the sweltering hallway and giving Claire a heavy wink. “Until we get you set up…do me a favor and keep all of this stuff on the ‘D.L.', okay?”
Claire could hear the air quotes.