"Just, don't let it touch dead bodies."
That's usually what Jacob Saunders heard when he asked his questions. A non-answer followed by a quick end of the conversation and the dismissing party often marching away without a care. Everyone above him had the same response. If he was lucky he might even get an extra remark stating that it would be pretty bad if it did touch a cadaver. Or to cover himself up in case he became the dead body. Or even how to initiate site lock-down if there was a chance a dead guy was taking a swan dive it right now.
No dead bodies. Ever.
Not that it would be difficult on Dr. Saunders to follow that one rule. He wasn't an overworked mortician at Site-19 and his time at the Foundation taught him not to throw bodies, especially of the dead variety, at everything. He knew the risks and punishments of unrestrained experimentation with a substance censored by the O5 Council themselves. Yet, as he was staring at a newly put up poster of stick-figure corpse falling into a vat of 447 with the caption No Dead Bodies. Ever. He had to wonder.
Why?
Why with all the redactions? Why all the reminders? Why all the board meetings, announcements, handouts, personal training, team training, emails, phone calls, texts, pagers and posters? Why no dead bodies?
This wasn't the only mystery that he would probably lie wondering about on his deathbed. He was not privileged to see behind the black bars. He had no clue why, let alone how, half of the stuff he researched disobeyed common science. But this green goo was the one enigma that like to flaunt it in his face. The Site screamed the order without the reason every day at work. Every comment, every suggestion, every thought, was somehow followed by a recitation of the commandment of Site-19. No dead bodies, ever. It was like it was all some sort of inside joke. Not only by his fellow staff but from the abnormality itself.
Why? he repeated to himself.
Senior Researcher Saunders reclined in his new office chair confused. He was just promoted the week before and for his entire career at the Foundation he never managed to get a clue. All he got from his colleagues was conspiracy theories and hearsay testimonies, each contradicting each other and sometimes themselves. And all he got from supervisors was stern remarks about insufficient clearance. Until a week ago.
I shouldn't be so rash, Jacob reminded himself. While most others would rush to get the classified information, he knew discount flubber was an exception. If he ran and begged there was a good chance they would give him nothing and if he ever brought it up again they would probably ghost him, or worse. However, if he acts confidently with his future assignments, then perhaps he will eventually garner enough respect from his superiors that they may trust him with some more delicate information. Maybe. He just has to wait for his moment and maybe some higher up may just tell him what the deal was with the dead bodies.
Just be calm Jacob, he told himself, You find out eventually. Eventually. Maybe.
He didn't last another week.

Jacob Saunders sat begrudgingly in the reception room of Intelligence, waiting for Site-19 Director Clara Laurent to call him in. He contacted the director inquiring about the higher clearance documentation on 447 and learned that he can only gain access to it after a mandatory meeting with her. Damn it, you couldn't wait at least a month, Jacob scolded to himself, She probably only scheduled this to scold me in person and drop my case with the dead bodies. He stomped his foot in displeasure. That earned him a concerned glance from the receptionist, "Mrs. Laurent is very busy today, Dr. Saunders. Please be patient."
Jacob sighed, "I wish I was."
The receptionist's phone buzzed and a voice came over, "Alright, bring him in."
Jacob stood before the receptionist could even respond. Let's get this over with. Jacob opened the director's door to a dimly lit office. "Come in Dr. Saunders. And close the door behind you." Clara Laurent's form sat behind a computer monitor. The mad zipping of a scroll wheel filled the room. This is a bad time for this, Jacob thought, as he approached the table. "You can turn on the lights," she barked suddenly, causing Jacob to flinch. He took two steps back as he felt the wall for a light switch.
Click
The room was showered with light, revealing all to Jacob. A broken antique desk lamp was knocked over by a desk phone and a half cup of coffee on the desk. A pile of papers slouched by her keyboard. Dr. Laurent, unfazed by the light, continued to scroll through her emails. Her eyes were hugged by dark circles and a stern frown.
Worst possible time.
As Jacob sat down, Clara straightened up to properly talk to her guest. "Good evening, Dr. Saunders. Congrats on your recent promotion." She smiled. "We need more people like you working at the Foundation."
Jacob relaxed. Maybe I have nothing to worry about. "Thank you. I hope I can continue to make great strides for the Foundation in the Future."
"Now, I believed you wanted to view the higher document clearance for…447?" Dr. Laurent continued narrowing her eyes.
"Yes, in order to continue my research, I require several high security level documents for 447." Jacob replied.
"Which ones?" Clara asked as she took a sip of her coffee.
No dead bodies.
"Appendix 447-D: Physical properties of SCP-447-1."
Dr. Laurent coughed back up her sip as Jacob grimaced. She is expecting it even! Why didn't I ask about the dead bodies? I just asked for a boring document that barely anyone knows about for the WRONG anomaly.
"…Are you sure, Dr. Saunders?" Dr. Laurent spoke after she cleared her voice, turning around for a tissue to wipe the coffee she hacked up on her desk, "With your new position you are privileged to more information than you may think."
Just ask about the dead bodies, Jacob thought It's the greatest mystery of the Foundation!
But as he was about to say the magic words he thought back to all the incidents. His former colleague Bill getting pistol whipped by a guard for bringing a severed figure to the experimentation room. A junior research getting fired for harassing a director for the issue. The O5 Council sending Site wide emails with just the phrase "Don't even think about it."
"Umm.. I guess Appendix-E also," Jacob said in resignation. I can't do it. They will detain me and transport me to a Site halfway across the world. I should just take what I can get and leave.
"How do you even know abou-" Dr. Laurent was about to say before she turned around and saw Jacob's face. Then she knew. She smiled as she held her hands together. "Listen Jacob, as Intelligence Director I know when someone wants something." She leaned towards Jacob and whispered in a hushed child-like tone, "You want to know about the dead bodies?"
Jacob felt like he melted. Finally "Yes, yes, yes," he said ecstatically, "What does 447 do to dead bodies?"
Clara smiled, "You know you lasted longer than most." She began typing permissions on her computer. "Most people don't last two weeks after getting the clearance for it."
"Well," Jacob responded "You can say I am a patient man."
"Alright, you should have permissions to view the uncensored version of Appendix 447-B," Clara said "Remember, DON'T tell anyone about this. You just got this position, don't lose it."
Jacob stood up to leave. "Don't worry," He assured her, "I know as much from the meetings."
As he closed the door behind him, he felt that he could jump with joy. FINALLY. ANSWERS. He practically ran to his office.

Clara Laurent didn't move for a few moments after Jacob left. She made sure that he heard him jog out and down the hall. She buzzed for her receptionist.
"Philips, cancel the rest of my plans for today."
"No problem, Dr. Laurent," her phone buzzed back.
She then picked up the phone and dialed the number for Site-19's Archivist. She waited for two rings before someone picked up. "Clara? What's the matter, you never call me in the middle of a work day?"
"Someone knows about Appendix-E," Clara replied somberly.
"Shit- Who was it? Did they ask about the other spheres?"
"Senior Researcher Saunders and no, it seemed like he only heard of it from someone else and wanted to use it to learn about the dead body property."
"Did you give him a document?"
"No, he was ecstatic that I would give him the uncensored Appendix B and left without a word about D and E," Clara replied.
"D AND E!" The phone yelled into Dr. Laurent's Ear. "What are you gonna do?"
"I am going to call for tighter control for 447 information, maybe even amnestics."
"No one will approve of that; the current disinformation and distraction campaign is working too well for them to consider amnestics."
"I know, that's why I need you to draft me up a fake D and E document in case someone starts asking questions. Luckily everyone is still distracted with dead bodies after 50 years."
"If anyone knew they wouldn't care about the bodies."


“Hey Lin, congrats on the promotion.”
Site Director Lin Liu continued looking out over the balcony. “Yep.”
“Yep?”
“Thank you, sorry. I'm… I'm just a bit fed up right now.”
“Fed up with what? The meeting? It's over now, I'm sure you could just go.”
“No, I'm fed up with everything! This meeting, this job, all of it!” Lin hung her head in her hands for a moment. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you, Connor.”
“It's quite alright, I can't imagine the stress you're going through.”
“But it's not just the stress, that's the worst part! It's the hopelessness for the future. Like, what's the point of it all?”
“What's the point of what we are doing? Our job is incredibly important, we're protecting humanity daily from anomalous threats.”
“But what's the endgame? Are we just going to keep containing anomalies until we mess up and lose everything? It's like we're just treating the symptoms while we watch the universe slowly die.
“Well, I mean, technically, we won't be able to stop the eventual heat–”
“Oh fuck off with that.”
“No, I mean… listen. Sure, someday all of this will be gone. Civilization, normal life, maybe even existence as a whole. But that's going to happen whether or not we do anything. Why not try to better the lives of people in the here and now? That's all we're doing, isn't it? Dying in the shadows so the world can live in the light, and all that.”
“But are we even helping anyone? Really? No one remembers our assistance, and half the time we're just cleaning up people we couldn't save and amnesticizing the ones we did. From their point of view, nothing in their lives have changed at all. They just didn't happen to be killed by a shapeshifting demon hell-bent on blowing up the city's church last Tuesday.”
“Well, that's still helping them, isn't it? They're alive thanks to us.”
“I'm sure some of them would have preferred to be dead.”
“Lin,” Connor sighed.
“Oh don't you ‘Lin' me. Do you know how fucked up this job is? The kind of shit I've had to go through? Hell, last month I lost my brother to an infovore, now I can't even remember his name! It's no surprise I want to put myself out of my misery.”
The two stood there, wordless. Lin silently wept.
“Lin, I know I'm not an easy person to talk to about this. I'm not great with understanding, and I can't really empathize with you. But you're my friend, and I want to help you get through this.”
“How are you going to do that, Connor?” Lin sniffled. “I can't see anyone about this, especially since I'm a Site Director. Do you think they'll allow some mentally ill researcher to lead an entire site?”
“Come on, you know they won't punish you for something like that. You're a hard worker, but there's nothing wrong with seeking some help every now and then.”
“That's funny, you almost made sense there for a moment. But honestly, I don't think any amount of therapy will help with what I'm going through. And don't even get me started with the cesspool of unethical shit I have to wade around in every day.”
“We have a whole committee for that, that's not something you need to worry about.”
“Not something I need to worry about, huh? Of course, how could I have been so dull? There's nothing at all wrong about imprisoning a young girl who was born with ethereal wings, despite the fact that we could easily neutralize all anomalous properties of her and reincorporate her into normal life.”
“That's not really a fair comparison, though. The vast majority of anomalies don't have an easy resolution to their properties, and most that do have some qualifier or conditioner that makes either the execution too infeasible or the attempt too risky. Sure, every now and then we come across a questionable decision, but is it really unethical to play it safe and keep doing what we know works?”
“But it doesn't always work, that's the problem! Have you ever wondered how many innocent lives were ruined because of a direct decision on our part? How many people we've destroyed out of some desperate attempt to retain this fictional notion of normality?”
“Oh, here we go again with this. We can't treat all anomalous humanoids like people, because that's not what the anomalies are. And normalcy is-”
“And the term humanoids, that's incredibly demeaning! Just call them what they are in most cases, anomalous humans. No need for the ‘-oid' suffix. They are people, just like you and me. And many of them don't deserve to be locked up in this place.”
“Like I was saying, normalcy is vital to modern civilization. Imagine how quickly society would crumble if it wasn't for the preservation of normality, the bedrock of reality, the Foundation. I honestly have no idea how you managed to climb the ranks this far with these radical ideas of yours.”
“Because who else is going to do something about it? Who is going to put in all of the work and effort and heartbreak into standing up for what's right?” Tears were streaming down her face as her voice grew louder. “I've been trying as hard as I can, but it's not working! Nothing I do ever works! Everything just remains the same shitty hellscape it's always been and I can't even tell anyone about it! No one shares my views on this, especially not you. That's why I can't go to a therapist, the Foundation would disown me if they ever found out about this.”
“You really think they don't already know?”
“I… well… they would have done it already if they did!”
“No they wouldn't, the Ethics Committee would have stopped them. You haven't done anything that's not allowed; you've only ever worked within the scope of your title.”
Lin stared at Connor for a beat, before turning away and staring at the horizon, her eyes still wet.
“Lin, just… trust me on this. Come see the site counselor. Just talk to her about whatever you want. Don't feel like you have to talk about any of this, or that you have to see her again afterwards. Try it once and see where to go from there.”
“Would that really do anything, though?”
“It did for me." He paused. "After that containment breach two years ago, I… I fell into a rough spot.”
“Oh.” Lin turned to face him. “I'm… I'm sorry. I didn't know, I… I should have helped.”
“I never told anyone. But after suffering for a couple of months I took a trip down to the counselor's office during lunch one day. Then I went back the next week, and the next one, and next thing you know it became a regular occurrence. It helped me, it really did. I only wished I went sooner, which is why I'm asking you now.
“Please, Lin. Just try it. If it goes terribly feel free to call me an idiot. But I want to help you through this, and since I can't do it myself, I'm directing you to someone who can.”
They stood in silence. Lin slowly turned and hugged Connor.

After their embrace, Connor motioned towards the exit. “Ready to go?”
“No, I just… wanted to say goodbye.”
“I can still walk with you to your car, we don't have to split right now.”
“No, I mean… goodbye.”
Connor stared at her. “What do you mean ‘goodbye'?”
“Please don't make me say it, this is already hard enough.”
“Lin.” He paused, carefully choosing his words. “Whatever it is you are about to do, I would suggest you delay doing it until you've had enough time to think about it.”
“I've already thought about it long enough, Connor.”
“Please don't do this, Lin. I told you, there are people you can go to, people who'll listen.”
“But that won't change anything, will it? It'll all be pointless in the end.”
“It doesn't have to be.”
“I've decided, Connor. You can't change my mind.”
“Calm down, Lin, do you hear what you're saying?”
“I'm calm, Connor. That's why I'm doing it. This isn't driven by passion or frustration. This is something I've accepted. I'm perfectly tranquil.”
Connor stared at Lin, his eyes begging her to stay.
“Please don't go.”
“Please don't stop me.”
Lin moved out of Connor's reach and climbed the balcony railing. Turning to look at Connor one last time, she flashed him a smile, and jumped, landing on the asphalt below with a sickening crunch.


PeppersGhost

Hard To Keep From Being King by PeppersGhost

More by this author

Monday

"I'm telling you, there is a Temporal Abnormalities Department," said Dr. Hippo, a twinge of hurt in his voice.
Dr. King lifted an eyebrow. "So you've seen it yourself, then?"
"Well, not yet," Hippo replied.
King blinked. Dr. Locke shook his head and laughed—at least to the extent that a dog is capable of laughing. Because, like his father before him, Dr. Shia D. Locke was a dog.
"You're fulla shit," said Dr. Locke.
Before Hippo could retort, Dr. Nicolini passed them in the hallway, saying "Pie!" as he went. He had barely glanced at the three, but they all knew to whom it had been directed.
"Thanks," said King.
On their pilgrimage to Site-20's cafeteria, King, Hippo, and Locke had heard "pie" from no fewer than five of their associates, which was, frankly, ridiculous.
"I think we can all agree that this is, frankly, ridiculous," said Hippo.
"Fucking Nicolini," Locke growled. "Want me to take a bit out of his ass?"
King shrugged. "They're just trying to be helpful. Besides, I think it's think it's just a habit for most people at this point."
They arrived at their destination shortly thereafter, the foretold slices of apple pie lined up in neat little rows on the dessert rack. Dr. King averted his gaze and picked up a slice of chocolate cake on his way through the line, but took care not to make a big show of it. King had only just sat down with his friends when he felt Dr. Kirby's hand on his shoulder.
"Hey there, big guy," said Kirby, looming over King with a smile. "How's our favorite researcher doing?"
Locke's eyes shot daggers behind his Buddy Holly glasses. "He's fucking dandy."
Kirby, his expression unchanged, gave King's shoulder a firm squeeze and thankfully let go. "Good to hear," he said. "Let me know if you need anything."
King's friends waited until the other man was out earshot, then tore in.
"I hate his stupid guts," said Locke between mouthfuls of chow. "Guy thinks he's Ion's gift to humanity just because he's got abs."
Hippo nodded. "You really ought to say something to HR. It's bad enough to speak to any colleague like that, let alone one twice his age."
King stirred his fork through his mashed potatoes for the thirtieth time. "The word 'waifish' came up at my employee health evaluation last week. People are concerned. It's unwarranted, but understandable. Besides, after that incident—"
Locke cut him off. "That was years ago!"
"No, I meant the one last June."
"That apple was eight feet tall and had tentacles," said Hippo. "Anyone would have fainted at the sight of that thing."
"Not from a photograph."
"It was hot that day," Locke added.
Dr. King stared into the void he'd carved in his mashed potatoes and silently wished it would swallow him whole.

* * *

Dr. King was six years old, and he was back in the containment chamber for SCP-261. An endless cascade of apple seeds flowed from the vending machine's every orifice, pooling around King's feet and sucking him in like quicksand.
"Stop eating the seeds," said the severed head of his father hovering above him. "It's not normal."
"But Dad, it's the best part!" King protested.
His father's head turned dark and shriveled. "The skin is the best part. That's where all the nutrients are. If you keep eating the seeds, they'll grow inside you. Do you want an apple tree growing out of your tummy?"
King looked at his father's body hunched over in a bloody corner of the room. A tangled mess of branches and intestines stretched from its stomach cavity. Terror gripped King's heart. He had sunk to his neck in seeds.
"No!" he screamed. "I'll never eat apples again, I promise!"
A mottling of green and white fuzz sprouted on what was left of his father's eyes. "You can still eat apples, son," it said, "just not the seeds."
A pain shot through King's stomach. It rumbled with the sound of a thousand creaking floorboards as the ocean of seeds curled up around his chin.
"I don't want a tree in my tummy," he whispered. "I want to make people happy."
And with that, he sank to oblivion. Apple seeds rushed to fill his mouth and nose and ears, crushing every inch of his insides until his gut split open. Something new emerged from the where the boy had been—something red.
"After all these years" said his father, "you can finally breathe."
When King woke up, he was screaming. And ravenously hungry.

Tuesday

On most days, the Site-20 cafeteria was filled with the deafening roar of a thousand employees making small talk. On this day, there was an unnatural hush over the room as Dr. King happily bit into apple after apple, jotting down notes for each one he finished.
"I didn't even know there were this many kinds!" he told his friends. "When I was a kid, apples were just apples. But it turns out there's a whole rainbow of them! Pink ladies, Zestar, Cortland, Winesap, Baldwin, Mutsu…"
"How did you even get all of these?" asked Hippo. "Half of them aren't even in season."
Locke snorted. "That's you first question?"
"Malusdomesticaphobia was hell," said King, his nose still buried in his notes as he spoke. "I had thought you two would be happy for me."
Locke's ears drooped. "We're are! It's just… well, it's fucking weird."
"It is pretty jarring, yeah," said Hippo. "One day you can't look at them, and now you're obsessed."
Dr. King set down his pen.
"I'm not obsessed. I'm excited. I stopped eating apples when I was six. Six! I didn't even remember why I stopped until last night. All this time, it was just some stupid old wives' tale my dad told me so I'd stop eating the seeds. All this shit with apple seeds following me throughout my career—maybe the universe wasn't trying to punish me. What if it's been trying to remind me who I really am?"
Locke laid a paw on King's leg and rested his head on it. "Listen, it's great that you're sorting through your childhood issues," he said. "You've already proven your point. You don't have to eat the seeds."
King gave his friend a gentle rub behind his right ear—his favorite spot. "Of course I don't have to." He raised up an apple core as if making a toast, then bit it right through the middle. "But it's the best part."

* * *

The dream was peaceful this time. King found himself in a garden full of plants and creatures that he had never seen before and would never see again. He dangled by his neck from the tallest tree, swaying back and forth in the cool breeze that carried cicada song through the air. A woman sat in the shade nearby, her face hidden. Coiled beside them around the trunk of the tree was an enormous serpent.
"It's not just a piece of fruit," said the snake to the woman. "It is the knowledge of good and evil. How can you live righteously if you don't know the difference between right and wrong?"
The snake wrapped its long, cold fingers around King's body and plucked him from his branch.
"Everything beyond this garden is ruled by a wise and powerful king," the snake continued. "He is called Pain. The fruit of the branch is his body. The juice of the fruit is his blood. Consume him and he will guide you. Reject him and he shall be as your shadow for your remaining days."
The serpent gently took the woman's wrist in one hand and placed King in her palm with his other.
"Eat his flesh," said the snake. "Drink his blood."
In a faraway castle on a faraway throne, King watched and laughed as the woman brought his crimson skin to her lips and began to chew.

Friday

Dr. Kirby slapped King on the back. "Lookin' good, big guy!"
"Shove it up your glutes, little man," replied King, slapping his colleague's rear in return.
The two laughed and shot finger guns at each other as Kirby left. Locke stared at them while he gnawed the linoleum off the table. King was looking better. He was still old and slight, but something about him seemed heartier. Less frail. He sat at the cafeteria table with his back straight and shoulders relaxed. Three rows of six apples each were arranged in front of him from greenest to reddest.
"It's great to see you in such high spirits," said Hippo with as much earnestness as he could muster. "But have you eaten anything besides…?"
King winked and spun a McIntosh on his little finger. "Don't worry, I'm taking supplements. Perhaps it's not the most rounded diet, but men my age need their vices to keep life worth living."
"At least go easy on the seeds," said Locke. "They're toxic in large quantities, you know."
"Oh, I do know. Turns to cyanide in your gut after about forty apples."
"And how many have you had?" asked Hippo.
King tossed the apple to the middle finger of his other hand, keeping it spinning all the while. "About sixty."
Locke hopped from his seat and shook himself in the way that dogs do when they feel dirty, his long fur and paisley necktie flapping side to side.
"Christ on a cupcake, King. I don't know if it's memetic or genetic, but something is obviously wrong here. For Pete's sake, you're acting like Jeff Goldblum after he got laid and turned into a fly. Actually, no—you're like the nerd from Christine when he starts wearing leather and fucking his car halfway through the movie. It's that level of weird. You need to get yourself checked the hell out!"
King squinted.
"There's nothing anomalous about eating apples. Right, Hippo?"
"Well, not per se, no, but—"
"My productivity has increased. I'm finally getting good sleep. There's a spring in my step for the first time since that first goddamn incident with the vending machine. Even before then—it's like all my life I've been asleep, and now I'm finally waking up. This is what I was getting counseling for, isn't it? To get better? Fuck me if I want to enjoy seeing life in color."
"I think it's perfectly reasonable to be worried," Hippo objected. "Any sudden change in personality would be alarming. Everything may seem fine now, but what about down the line? I mean, even with skips aside, strokes and tumors are very real concerns."
King stood up.
"You know what else is a real concern?" he asked.
Neither of his friends answered, so he said something about the girth of his penis, wished them good day, and left.

* * *

Dr. Locke's paws clicked along the elevator floor as he stepped in. He pressed his nose against a button to make the doors close faster, but a hand stuck through and stopped them at the last moment.
"Going up?" he asked.
Dr. King stepped in and the doors shut tight.
"Broken god, King. Are you following me?"
The question hung in the air for few moments, and then King hung his head.
"I'm sorry, Locke. You're right. You and Hippo both. I have been acting strange. I got so caught up in how good I was feeling that I didn't stop to consider how bizarre the whole thing is." He knelt down and scratched Locke gently behind his right ear. "Thanks for looking out for me."
Locke's posture was stiff at first, but soon relaxed to rest his head against King's palm.
"Well, yeah. Of course. You're my best friend, King."
"I've been having these really vivid dreams, too. In some of them I'm back at Site Nineteen, but there are people there I didn't remember before. Colleagues. Friends. A man with an amulet around his neck whose face kept changing. A man whose heart was replaced with steel. A man in a hat who flirted with devils and teased at being one. I remember them so clearly now. But the Foundation would never employ people like that, would they? Not without a reason."
Locke glanced at the doors of the elevator. They should have reached their floor by now. King was still scratching him.
"Your father was in those dreams, too. Did old Kain ever mention anyone like that to you?"
"Never," said Locke. The gentle hand behind his neck was feeling more like a headlock with every passing second.
"You're lucky you were able to know your real father. He was a loyal dog until the end. Always helping on projects. Making us laugh. Guarding us. Watching over us." King's grip tightened. "He watched us so closely. And when one of his special projects strayed too far out of line…"
Locke jerked himself out of King's grip and backed up against the steel elevator wall. "Dylan, you watched me grow up. You know me. I'm your friend. I care about you."
King stood, drawing himself to his full height. The elevator motor had gone quiet and the air was perfectly still.
"I believe you. They needed someone who would really care. At least more than Hippo—he was far too reasonable, right to the very last."
Even with his back to the wall, Locke scraped his paws against the floor, trying to push himself away, make him himself smaller.
"Loved the reports you wrote about me, by the way. Just saw them this morning. I was surprised by how much you'd neglected to include. Really tried to protect me, didn't you? You sincerely thought I'd come around on my own. I'm certainly grateful, though you father would be quite disappointed."
The lights began to flicker.
"Didn't they tell you what I really am? Did they not tell you who spawned me? Perhaps they didn't even know the full extent of it. I certainly didn't! I still wonder how much of it was planned from the start, if there's a page of containment procedures somewhere that lays out the life I've lived since birth. What better prisoner could there be than one who thinks he's the warden? And why should I suspect there's anything special about me when the Foundation employs a talking dog?"
Between each surge of light, Locke saw flashes of another man filling the space King used to occupy, emerging from the darkness like a cicada in summer. The other man dangled in the air, his nude body painted scarlet with blood that dripped to the floor below. His throat was wrapped in a thin black cord that stretched from the top of the tallest tree.
"You're still the man I've always known," Locke said, his voice so hopeful it could barely be heard over the silence. "You don't have to do this."
King and the man who wasn't King bent themselves over Locke's small, shaking form.
"Of course I don't have to. But father always said the skin was the best part."


Anna sees the SOONG AND CHENG PARTNERS plaque outside the door and smiles to herself. It's not the most original workplace joke, but at least one person in this office isn't a completely humourless stick-in-the-mud. She knocks and pushes the door open on a cubicle space with a single whirring ceiling fan, as four heads swivel to look at her.
"Hi. Matthew Yok-Sing Lau? Is he here?"
A thirty-something man with tortoiseshell glasses and an immaculately trimmed beard and moustache gets up, raising his hand. "Matt Lau, that's me. You are -"
"Anna Lopez, from the New York-"
"Oh! You're Doctor Lopez. Come in, come in."
He leads her into a room the size of a large broom closet. A sleek designer glass-and-wood desk sits across the middle, incongruous in the stuffy atmosphere and peeling paint. Lau squeezes past the desk edge to sit on the other side with difficulty, causing Anna to stifle a chuckle and Lau to smile ruefully.
"Not the best layout, but I can't work without a good desk. Please, take a seat. You surprised me. I wasn't expecting-"
Anna raises an eyebrow, being used to reactions along these lines from macho Agents and MTF troopers, but Lau notices and smiles again, a little more nervously this time.
"No, nothing like that - I thought you were going to bust in here with the regional director and a full task force, you would have too if you'd seen the message I'd got about you. It had a damn O5 stamp and when I didn't respond for ten minutes bloody Zheng - ah, Director Zheng - was on the phone shouting at me to acknowledge it. Well, you're here now, welcome to Hong Kong, Doctor Lopez. Agent Matthew Lau, at your service. You need information about someone, I understand."
Anna nods. "Yes, quickly as possible. Name's Albert Ma. Moved to New York in 2000, that's why they sent me, but lived here all the rest of his life. I need everything on him, the colour of paint in his kid bedroom, how big the door to his apartment was, how many guys he whacked."
"What's stopping you from asking him?"
Anna slides a manila folder bulging with papers and photographs across the desk. "We did. The guy's in a nursing home, he can barely remember what he had for breakfast this morning. All the info we could get in the States is in here, so I had to come to Hong Kong in person."
"Bad luck. Well, we can start at the Public Records office-"
"No, you don't get it. When I said I needed the colour of paint in his bedroom I meant it." She passes him a single typed sheet of paper. "These are the specifics. We need to go in person."
To his credit, Lau is seasoned enough not to show surprise. "Hard job, but I can try. Ah, I see why they requested me for this. This will be a tricky one." He taps on a line towards the end of the list.
"Yeah, I thought so as well. Like I said, I'm on a tight schedule, so if you need to organise anything-"
Lau holds up his mobile phone and taps the send bulb on a WhatsApp message. "I know a guy who can help with that. In the meantime, let's get this other stuff out of the way. The home first?"
Anna flips the pages in the folder to a black-and-white photo of a housing complex and an address line. "Here."
"I know the place. Let's go."
A red taxi is waiting outside. Lau ushers Anna into the back seat and greets the driver. "Hi, Wong. Ma Tau Wei, Kowloon, ok?"
The driver nods wordlessly and pulls away from the kerb. The occupants sit in silence for several minutes, horns honking outside as Lau shuffles through the folder's contents.
"So, Doctor Lopez, against my better judgement, I'm dying to ask you why I'm chasing after some grandpa on O5 orders. Insurgency guy? Ex-Japanese Agency? Doesn't look like a Sarkicist to me."
Anna looks at the taxi driver with alarm, and Lau grins. "Oh, sorry, Wong is one of our guys. He's level-3 cleared, and doesn't talk much, so you can spill your secrets."
Wong gives a thumbs-up and Anna exhales. "No, he's not involved with the para-world at all. He's 14K, so we know he's shady, but no artifact trafficking or humanoid smuggling."
"Well, why, then? O5-one wants to find out about his grandpa's life or something?"
"No, this is big. My team needs this info for skip containment."
"Big? How big?"
"Double Ks." Seeing his nonplussed face, Anna has to explain her own workplace slang. "Keter and K-class big."
A low whistle. "What's the number?"
Anna shifts uncomfortably. "I'm not supposed to say. It doesn't matter-"
"Look, I know you have to keep opsec, but if you're having me chasing after K-class scenarios, you can't keep me in the dark. I need to know what we're walking into, if there's going to be memetics, coghazes, the neighbours are going to try and eat our faces off."
"Like I said, there's nothing. Absolutely nothing. This is a normal guy and we need to know about his normal life. No para-shit. Not unless you know about it and I don't, this is your city."
"I get you, but if that's how it is, normal is my job is while you're here. If you start speaking in tongues and your head spins 360 degrees, I'm taking the afternoon off."
"Deal," Anna laughs.
"We're here."
"How do we get in? What's our cover?"
"This is my dad, I'm writing a book about his life, you're my American wife."
Anna rolls her eyes. "Always the husband-wife cover. Do all you field agents take the same creative writing classes?"
"We use a standard handbook, but at short notice I can't do much better. I could have gone with 'documentary film crew' but I didn't time to get the equipment, and 'police investigation' has the benefit of partial truth but not when you're asking about triads. Do you have a better idea?"
"Not really. Just keep your hands to yourself."
"Noted. How's your Cantonese?"
"Uh, not the best - m goi, ngo hai mei gwok -"
Lau winces. "I see why you need me for this op. At least no one is going to cross-check our cover."
The pair exit the taxi outside an aging block of flats. An uncharacteristic burst of activity for a Sunday morning is going on, as the beginnings of a summer downpour spur washing being pulled off the balconies and children running indoors. Lau pops the boot open and extracts a telescoping umbrella and a plastic bag filled with ripe mangoes.
"No thanks, mangoes give me hives."
"Not for you." Lau rubs his thumb and forefinger together. "This is our master key. More natural, less likely to raise suspicions than cash."
The seventeenth-floor apartment is occupied by an elderly widow of unexpectedly tall and straight-backed stature. She peers with worried eyes across the security chain, but Lau's clean-cut appearance, the novelty of an American visitor to this dreary building and a ripe fruit defuse the tension rapidly, and Lau has to contend with a barrage of questions about his life punctuating his interview about the life of his false father. Anna roams as best you can around a single-bedroom apartment, jotting down notes in a pad. The old woman happily accepts her intrusion as foreign custom, only briefly broken by her producing a tape measure and beginning to measure the bedroom doorframe's dimensions.
"One hundred and eighty centimeters by seventy-five-" She notices the room has gone silent, and turns to see a puzzled grandmother and Lau's face contorted into something halfway between deep thought and suppressed laughter. A hurried Cantonese explanation later and the conversation resumes.
"What did you tell her about the door?" Anna asks in the corridor, as they extricate themselves from a dinner invitation.
"My dad used to say he grew up in a room so small he had to touch his knees to get in. I mean, not my dad. This guy. You know."
"Nice."
Lau answers a beep from his phone. "My contact has replied. Best not to keep him waiting."
Thirty minutes later, the taxi stops outside the Mandarin Oriental, a gleaming contrast to the crumbling Kowloon tenements. A smiling old Eurasian man in an Armani suit is sitting in the lobby lounge, stirring a cup of white tea with exacting precision.
"Hello, Uncle Choy," Lau calls out on approach.
"Matthew, my boy, always a pleasure. Who is this lovely lady?"
"This is Doctor Lopez, a colleague of mine from America." Anna shakes the man's hand; his smile never leaves his face, but he shows no teeth.
"Charmed, my dear. Your practice?"
"Oh, I'm not a physician - I have an economics PhD."
"Wonderful." A waitress arrives with two more cups of tea and a tray of petits-fours. "Now, I assume this is not a purely social call."
Lau passes Choy a handful of photographs. "This is Albert Ma. He used to be a 14K enforcer."
Choy spreads his hands in mock despair. "You see he only calls this poor man when he wants something. I may have seen him before. What is the problem?"
"Did he ever kill anyone in the 14K?" Anna asks. Lau sucks in air through his teeth. Choy is still smiling, but an unpleasant gleam has appeared in his eyes.
"My goodness, your lady friend is direct. I thought you had finished with the Triad Bureau for good, Matthew? If you think Inspector Teng is going to look after you still, without a badge-"
"No, no, it's nothing to do with the Bureau," Lau interjects hurriedly. "This is entirely Foundation business. No police, no charges, no consequences for you, or for Mr Ma. Information only."
"You want to know who a man has killed, and there will be no consequences?" Choy shakes his head and turns to Anna. "There are always consequences. Well, young Matthew is foolish, but a poor liar, so I do believe he is not wearing a wire for the Hong Kong Police." Lau withers with another glance. "You, young lady, are another matter. What is this in aid of?"
"As Agent Lau says, it's Foundation business. I promise you, nothing will come back to cause trouble for you or Mr Ma in any way."
"Mr Ma's fate does not interest me. Foundation business, Foundation business, enough with this fucking bullshit." The smile cracks ever so slightly.
"I don't know," Anna replies. "We've collected information like this before. It gets filed away, and nothing ever happens. If it isn't filed…" She mimes an explosion with her hands. "You clearly know about our organisation. We can't always explain why we need these things."
Choy stares her down for a good twenty seconds, after which the smile returns to its former serene state. "So well educated, and yet still no ideas. You Foundation are all the same. At least you admit it. Matthew, in the next two weeks one of my trucks is crossing to Shenzhen. I will have one of the boxes marked. Your people will not inspect this box."
"What's going to happen to this box?"
"No consequences for you or the young lady will result."
Lau sighs. "It's done, then."
"Good. I see your sense has not completely been addled. I will tell you, then; Mr Albert Ma never harmed a living soul. Well, I suppose he might have roughed some people up, but I can't keep track of that."
"Nothing at all?" asks Anna in surprise.
"That's what I said. Goodbye, young lady, goodbye, Matthew. Ask before bringing your friends next time."
Back in the taxi, Lau dabs at his forehead with a handkerchief. "Uncle Choy's Christmas gift is going to be big to make up for this one."
"What does he mean about the boxes?"
"Oh, he does some artifact trading - MC and D, private collectors, that sort of thing. Occasionally he lets us know about something dangerous, we take it away. So he doesn't attract attention from the PSB if it blows up in someone's face."
"I get the feeling that's not all he does."
"Best not to know. Do we have everything now?"
"Yeah, we're done. Thanks for your help. Sorry about upsetting your guy there."
"It's fine, I'll smooth it over. Look, you have to tell me now you have all the info. What's the big reveal here? Why do you need it?"
"I'll show you. Pass me the folder and stop at the next post box."
Have you ever been responsible for the death of a sapient being?
YES/NO/NOT APPLICABLE
She puts a neat circle in blue ballpoint around the NO and seals the folder in an A3 envelope, flipping it around to show Lau the front.

CENTRAL RECORDS

There is no address. Anna pulls the metal flap of the post box open and heaves the envelope in, where it settles with a dull thud.
"And? Now what?"
"When I told Choy I couldn't explain what happens to the information, I was telling the truth. We have no fucking clue where this is going. If we don't do it, though…"
"Jesus Christ." Lau laughs and buries his head in his hands. "That's really it?"
"That's it."
"When do you fly out?"
"Not till Tuesday."
"Great. Well, my orders are to assist whatever business you have in Hong Kong, and I think the next order of business is finding something to eat. I know a place not far from here…"
"Just as long as it's not back at the Mandarin Oriental."
One of a thousand red taxis joins the mass of Harcourt Road traffic, and disappears into the night.


D-6721 felt the stiff collar around his neck. It made it almost impossible to crane his neck down, and reminded him of a starched collar from some trashy Victorian paperback. He could breathe just fine. His right arm felt numb, like a blood-pressure test before the “pop”. In fact, the band around his arm looked just like one. It was halfway between his shoulder and elbow, the skin was swollen red. The intercom crackled to life, from the top of the room. D-6721 stared ahead at the mirror, likely one-way.
“D-6721, describe the items on the table in front of you.”
D-6721 looked down, moving his whole torso forward. His right arm was locked into some sort of steel lunchbox-looking contraption bolted to the table that covered his elbow to an inch before his wrist. His hand was rested on a porcelain dinner plate. To the left were three forks atop a napkin. There was a butter plate above the forks. A tiny, seashell-cut piece of butter on top. A slightly serrated butter knife rested on the edge of the small butter plate. Blade pointed inwards, towards himself.
“Table settings, I think that's the right phrase.” D-6721 noticed the vague bristle of his arm hair underneath the contraption: like a straight razor was angled the wrong way. It made him feel a bit uneasy. D-6721 noticed a small candle made of black wax, like the kind sold in a mall kiosk. It was already lit, a small puddle around the wick.
“D-6721, the device around your neck is a foundation standard shock collar. It can deliver anything from a static discharge to lethal amounts. For the sake of this experiment, the voltages administered will be restricted to non-lethal amounts.”
It wasn't the first time he'd had one on. He braced for the incoming “test”. The metal tips at his neck hummed and then discharged. He jumped a bit in his seat, but it wasn't as bad as he expected. No one ever was consistent with the dial. The intercom came back to life.
“Alright, test successful. Deterrents online.”
He wasn't going anywhere with his arm clamped down. He was starting to lose even more feeling in his right arm, the sensation was fading fast. He wasn't sure what this was all about, but he had a hunch. He heard a soft murmur over the intercom and realized he'd been absorbed by his arm. And whatever that box was.
“D-6721, do not be distressed by the proceeding event. You will feel no pain, but you may experience heavy bloodless. Foundation medical staff are on standby to make sure you do not pass out.”
Shit.
“However, this experiment is highly dependent upon your personal willpower. We will explain momentarily.”
The box started to hum like a soda fountain, and before D-6721 could panic, the vague bristling disappeared. Now, there was no sense at all.
“The severance procedure is now complete.”
“W-what the fuck?” D-6721 tried to move the deadened limb, rapidly trying to wrench it out of the box. There were flecks of blood that spat out of the end, way less than what seemed right.
“D-6721.”
He ignored them, continuing to try and remove the stump. Two rapid jolts from the collar, and he forgot about it for a moment.
“What did you do?!”
“Your right hand has been severed three centimeters before the wrist.”
“You fuckers!”
Zap. His throat clenched and spasmed. An involuntary string of spittle shot out.
“D-6721, you will be permitted to leave if you're able to complete one simple task.”
“W-what do you want?” He was seething, but mostly in shock.
“Consume your right hand.”
D-6721 looked down at the plate. There was a small string of blood seeping out from the wrist.
“Oh God.”
D-6721 reached his left hand up, picking up the fork to the far left.
What am I doing?
Bzzt.
“That's the salad fork.” said the man on the intercom, monotone with a hint of disapproval.
“Come on!” D-6721 was exasperated. He dropped the fork, grabbing the second one
Bzzt.
“Fish fork.”
D-6721 clenched his teeth. Process of elimination, it had to be the last one. He held it in his fist, tines down like a psycho killer's knife.
He took in a breath, realizing there was only one way out.
D-6721 plunged the fork down into the flesh between his fingers. He felt sick, the world a bit wavy as the reality set in.
“Good job, D-6721. Did you remember to say grace?”
“N-no?”
Bzzt.
He almost let go of the fork.
“Wait, how are you holding that fork?”
“I dunno. It's a fork.” He replied, his fist shaking, idling.
“Hold it properly.” His voice was like a sitcom dad urging his son to take out the trash.
“I can't.”
“Well why not?” he seemed angry, exasperated.
“I'm right-handed.”
Dr. Kells' finger lifted off the intercom button with a click. He looked back over his shoulder at Technician Rhys.
“You said he was left-handed.”
“He said he was ambidextrous.”
Dr. Kells clicked the button.
“D-6721, you said you were ambidextrous.”
“Oh, yeah."
Both rooms fell silent for a moment.
"I lied.”
“God damn it, Rhys." he shouted, not taking his finger off the call button.
“Well, how was I supposed to know?” Rhys shot back, defensively covering herself with her clipboard.
D-6721 spoke up.
“You could cut off my other hand.” he said
“D-6721, that's fucking dumb.”
“He's gotta do it the right way.” Rhys shouted her support from behind.
“I'll hold it with my teeth if I have to.”
“You won't have to,” Dr. Kells sighed. “Scrub the "Feast of the Iwotan", we can't have someone keep messing it up.”
“What does this mean for me? I still got one hand.” D-6721 asked.
“No, no, no. You don't go back. We've already stretched it enough with the whole wrong fork thing. We'll get someone else.”
D-6721 let go of the fork. It stuck into the flesh and poked out like a ship's mast. He took his left hand and flicked the tip, watching it wobble like a vaulting pole.


Why is he so sad?
A small Yorkie Pomeranian tilted her head at a small crying boy, her Master. He held, in his hand, a letter which she could not read, with a familiar wax insignia having previously held it shut. Bella knew this insignia well, she had seen it adorning many important papers on the wall and many Magic Sticks had it on the bottom. Bella did not speak German well but her master's mind was repeating the words 'Mage's Academy and 'failure'.
Poor Master, please don't be sad!
Bella nuzzled up against Master and felt his hand petting her. Bella did not let anybody but Master pet her because Master summoned her and she must protect Master. Other humans in this house are gross and smell like bad things. Master does not like them, and therefore Bella does not like them.
The rhythmic petting eventually lulled Bella to sleep.

Bella was awakened to yelling. Master's Parents were the Yellers. The Yellers had the Letter from earlier in their hands, and they were yelling at Master for some reason.
Bella looked at Master in confusion, and back at the Yelling Parents. Master's mind was hard to understand. There was too much Sadness and Anger. Words flew into Bella's mind, too fast to understand. Words like 'Bad Son', 'Failure', 'Magicless', 'Disgrace', and finally, like a shout in her mind, the word 'Disowned'. Bella's German was very bad, but these words shot like bullets into her mind, so much so that she had to look away.
When she looked back, she felt a shock of empathetic pain jolt into her neck. Master was being choked by his Father. His Father was a Bad Man. Bella knew this but she didn't know how Bad of a Man he was. Anger pulsed through her tiny frame.
Protect Master.
Bella's shape pulsed and began to grow.
Protect Master!
Bella grew more, but too slowly. Master needed to be saved now! The Bad Man's Bad Wife looked over at Bella in confusion.
PROTECT MAST—
The Bad Woman waved her hands, creating Red Sparks which drilled into Bella's skull, pulsing into her brain with the singular command, PAIN.
Bella writhed, the words twisting into her brain across all of the nerves in her body. Her concentration wavered, and she reverted to her Yorkie Pomeranian form. The Bad Man threw Master to the ground and gave a cruel grin towards Bella. Suddenly, her vision was obscured by his large boot, kicking into her face. Bella hit the wall with a loud thump. She panicked and her fight or flight instinct kicked in.
Her body shrunk, the fur shifting into an exoskeleton, her eyes splitting and segmenting into small red hexagons. Bella flew as quickly as possible, past the Bad People, and out of the open window.
I'm so sorry Master, I couldn't help you.
In her weakened state, she couldn't hold her form for too long and collapsed in a park only a few hundred meters away. She crashed into the ground, a Pomeranian once more. Her eyes darkened and closed…

In her dreams, she saw her Master. She remembered him crying when he managed to finally use the magic to summon her. She remembered the word 'Friend' pulsing through his mind. Bella's purpose was to protect her Master.
She failed today.

Bella woke up to her Master wandering the park, crying again. He looked very hurt. In many places he was bruised, bleeding, and he was nursing a slight limp in his left leg. Worst of all were his eyes. Both were purple and swollen shut. He had to grab onto trees, benches, and anything he could to keep himself moving even in his blinded state.
Coming unsteadily to her feet, Bella walked up to the hurt Master. She gave him a sharp yip, which to her meant "Master!". He looked around, confused. Bella rubbed against his leg to let him know she was with him. He painfully knelt down to one knee and picked her up. When his hand touched her back, a shock of Blue Sparks emerged from his hand. He didn't notice, but Bella felt her connection with him grow.
"Master?''
"Bella? Is that you, Bella?"
"Use me as your eyes."
What?
Your eyes don't work, concentrate on me and use me as your eyes, please.
Master looked confused, but as he picked up Bella, the Blue Sparks got brighter and concentrated around both of their eyes.
I see it, Bella! I can see again!
Bella didn't respond, she just led her eyes to where he should go. They eventually settled on a park bench, as far from Master's house as possible. Master fell onto the bench, hurt but gaining some respite from the much-needed rest.
Master closed Bella's eyes.

It had been several days. Master's eyes were better but he still used hers sometimes to look into places that he couldn't. He was getting better. But both of them were hungry. So, so hungry. They got lucky a few days ago and found some food which had been thrown away mostly intact, but that was a while ago. Bella had been carrying whatever scraps she could back to Master, but he seemed weaker. He needed something.
Master's eyes fell onto a restaurant nearby.
"Don't do it, Master, if they catch you, you could go to jail."
"Hungry."
"How will you even get in?"
"Magic.
"No kidding. How about you open the door and I'll get the food? If I get caught, it's okay, I can escape."
"You're too short to get to the counter. I'll be careful."
"No! You're going to get in trouble!"
Master closed the link. Bella was shocked. He had never done this before. Master began walking towards the back of the restaurant, to the service door. He tried the door. Locked.
Bella reopened the link.
"It's locked, we can find food somewhere else, let's just go!"
Master closed the link again.
Master's hands erupted into Blue Sparks, which he put into the doorknob. A moment passed. The lock clicked a bit. Another moment passed. The door swung open quietly. Master dropped to one knee in exhaustion from the effort on his bruised and starving body.
Bella heard voices from the other side of the alley. Looking over, she saw three people in chef's attire, staring with slack jaws at Master. Breaking out of their confusion, they ran towards Master.
"Why are these people calling me a thief?"
"You're trying to steal things."
"I don't want to go to jail, Bella!"
"I'm not going to let that happen."
Bella turned towards the running chefs. Familiar energy washed over her as she began to grow. She grew, reshaped, and recolored into a large Eurasian Brown Bear. She towered over the chefs, who just looked at her, confused. Bella summoned all of her breath and let out an earsplitting roar. The chefs began to run.
Adrenaline coursed through Bella's body and she ran after the chefs, the rage which had built up in her little dog soul pumping through her mind as she chased the men. She caught up quickly. With a wide swipe, a swath of blood painted the walls of the restaurant alley and the man fell, screaming in pain. The next chef morphed in her mind into The Bad Woman, the last runner becoming The Bad Man.
HOW DARE YOU HURT ME! HOW DARE YOU HURT HIM!
Bella put on a fresh burst of speed and she was caught up the two remaining. She swiped up the person who she believed to be The Bad Woman. Bella held her in the large bear arms. Bella thought the word PAIN and crushed the woman like a grape in her arms.
The Bad Man was last. He stood at the end of the alley, aghast at the bloodshed, unable to move out of sheer fear. Bella lumbered up and grabbed him by the throat, holding him up. As Bella was about to squeeze the life out of The Bad Man, she heard a familiar sob behind her.
"BELLA NO! STOP! PLEASE!"
The red faded from Bella's vision. The man who she thought was The Bad Man was just a random chef, terrified and choking to death in her paw. Bella looked at the carnage behind her and released the man unconsciously.
"Master, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so so-"
A large dart appeared on Bella's neck, followed by two subsequent ones. The driver of an unmarked van, a man in a militaristic uniform with an odd-shaped gun, had emerged from it. Bella dropped like a sack of rocks, transforming back into a normal Yorkie Pomeranian. Several more men ran out and began packing the carnage into more vans, grabbing her along with it. The last thing Bella saw before her eyes closed again was Master being hoisted up by the arms, and loaded into a van, unconscious.

Bella woke up in an unknown kennel. She was surrounded by all manner of strange dogs and dog-like creatures. She was muzzled and her body felt slow and sedated.
"Bella? Are you awake?"
"Yes, but I don't know where I am."
"I don't know where I am either."
"I'll find you, I swear."
"Thanks, Bella. It's lonely here."
"I know. At least we can talk though."
"Yeah. At least we still kinda have each other"
"At least…"
"I'm feeling tired now. I'm gonna go to sleep. We can escape in the morning right?"
"Of course. I love you, Master."
"I love you too, Bella."


T-Minus 10 Minutes
It was a dark, rainy sunrise in North Carolina, and for the second time in forty years, the SCP Foundation was running away. Dr. Rita Denver looked up into the early dawn, through the dark clouds and up into the eye of Ares' Hammer, that soulless machine peeking out from behind the dark drizzling clouds. Site-23 was being evacuated, the few anomalies deemed valuable enough for continued custody being loaded onto the unmarked white vans along with all of the files and technology the site could muster and transport. Everything else was the UIU's problem now. Rita could hear the yells and cries of the site leadership as the last personnel were being herded out and into the evacuation vehicles. The first remnants of the sun's orange glow shone brightly, creeping over the horizon.
“Denver! Stop fucking staring and get in the truck!”
One of her superiors' shouts broke Rita out of her thoughts, and the gangly Junior Researcher jogged towards the nearest vehicle. She slammed her pale fists onto its doors, and they were pushed open by an elderly Japanese doctor. He helped pull her in, and Rita sat down on a bench against the side of the van's metal interior. The vehicle, stuffed to the brim with plump, creamy-colored files and stuffy, lab-coated personnel drove off down the dirt road out of Site-23, joining the convoy line of plain, stark-white vans.
The rooks were lined up.
T-Minus 8 Minutes
“Trajectory plotting complete, beginning the arming of payload…”
Lieutenant Carl Wessex stood silently by, watching as the rows of sweaty, hairy operators pressed buttons, arming a weapon stationed hundreds of miles up into the atmosphere and a thousand miles away. A finger pushed a button, and another, and another. A screen flashed green, then a staticky view of Site-23 opened up on the television's surface.
A man coughed, then continued at his workstation. Rows of numbers and variables and magic runes rolled down and across the computer monitor as the technician completed his role in the war machine. The man beside him yelled out, in a thick Midwestern accent.
“Payload armament proceeding at sixteen percent!”
Lt. Wessex checked his watch, then thought about how this, this would be the weapon that the president believed would end this… Cold War. He wondered what the president was doing now, and if he knew this test was going on as Wessex contemplated. Wessex thought he must, and that the president was proud. He flashed a glance back to one of the many men tap-tap-tapping away at his computer and said to himself. Who'd of thought magic would have this much math?
The knights were set up.
T-Minus 5 Minutes
Half a world from Site-23, Andrei Ekatrinev watched with the rest of GRU-P high command as the Americans tested their new weapon. They had spies within the UIU, always. Sending the room of aging hardliners grainy footage only a few seconds behind what the Americans were getting. One of Andrei's fellows, a heavyset, nearly eighty-year-old Kazakh, took a hit of whatever was in his battered flask. One quietly summoned his assistant and directed him to fetch-project-something-won't-you?. The young man calmly walked down the hall, and the group of Soviet politicians watched the scene with bated breath.
The black king was in place.
T-Minus 2 Minutes
Ares' Hammer's internal circuitry buzzed and whirred as thaumic energy and thurmaturgic power coursed through the machine. It sat, lazing away like a glassy massive eye in low-Earth orbit watching all the tiny little people and cars and buildings under it. If it was a person, perhaps it would have felt a bit of fear, or sadness or even patriotism but it was a machine, nothing more than a clunking hulk of welded metal, carved with runes and symbols of which it couldn't comprehend.
Ares' Hammer felt the hot, burning weight of the payload lying sealed to its undercarriage, and sent out a small ping to the men controlling it from Washington.

Payload armament proceeding at 99.54%… 99.76%… 100%.
Permission to fire?

The massive machine waited for a minute as the automated transmission pinged around the world for a minute before being received. Ares' Hammer lay up in space a little longer, then received its response.

Permission: granted
Godspeed.

The white queen was in position.
T-Minus 1 Minute
The man in the Passenger seat of Rita Denver's van pointed something to the man behind him. It was time, and the cloudy, red eye of the machine became a glassy white. Small wisps of energy collected upon the satellite's steel and tungsten structure, then more, and more. The Foundation scientists stared in awe out of the window as the symbols on the machine began to glow a thin, bright blue. For a small second, all was quiet, then Ares brought down his hammer on Site-23.
The pawns were positioned on the board.
T-Plus 0 Minutes
The thick, blinding white light came down from the machine like a call from God himself, wiping Site-23 away like the blight on American soil the Foundation had become. Lt. Wessex stared on in empty-eyed acceptance as the beam swept over the facility, and Dr. Ekaterinev cleanly asked for his assistant to go call the General Secretary, and that the GRU-P may need to counter further aggression from the Americans. The assistant saluted, and soon the entire Politburo was in damage control mode.
The chessboard was set.
T-Plus 1 Minute
The sun shone its bright, orange beams down on the American East, its glowing light peering through the dusky clouds and onto the smoking ruins of Site-23. A battalion of UIU and Pentagram personnel were en-route to secure the remains of the site. Lt. Wessex was soon to be on call with his superiors, who would themselves relay it to the president.
The morning sun gleamed brightly, just beyond the shining house on the hill. The Pax Fundamenta was over, the Pax Americana had begun.
The first white pawn moved up the board.
T-Plus 1 Hour
O5-8 stood outside his chambers in the hot courtyard of Site-06. The South Indian heat beat down on his skin, and from his chamber, he could see lines upon lines of planes emblazoned with the logos of the “Swiss Continental Patrol”. He smiled gently to himself, continuing to stare in pride as the planes flew into the nearby airstrip and into Site-06. He'd masterminded this entire plan himself, as the council always suspected about the day the Foundation and the Americans may not be allies. It took years of shifting powerful anomalies, information, researchers, all to Site-23. All to convince the Pentagram that that, not 19, or any of the proper sites was where to strike first. The Foundation wouldn't have any real presence on the American continent, anymore. A small price to pay for the successful airlifting of almost half their resources.
His bodyguards wordlessly gestured for 8 to enter a more safe location, back to his quarters. They were moving in the anomalies, and killing one of the lead councilmen was not a good ending to the airlift. O5-8 allowed himself to be escorted back, smirking all the way. The battle was lost, sure, but in the end, all the Americans destroyed was a shaggy dog.
The first black pawn moved forward. The game was on.


Afghanistan, 1985
23:47
Sergei Vasiliev sat at his post, on the outskirts of the tiny village that some time ago had been occupied and turned into a Soviet base. The night had been quiet, the Mujahideen guerillas focusing their efforts on other, more strategic outposts for several weeks.
But for all the relative peace and quiet, it was hard to forget that they were at war. The fact the base had been ignored by the guerilla forces had turned it into an unofficial hub: meetings between local base commanders, convoys moving through, and even some murmurs of a mysterious project from high command. This had ironically led to the village being even more fortified than it had ever been before the period of peace.
Alexi from the motor pool had even sworn that he overheard rumors of a tank battalion being assigned to defend, but since Alexi had also sworn that he met the Wandering Jew, Sergei was skeptical. Still, it wouldn't be remiss to have something interesting happen.
The most notable event in the past week had been the feral herd of sheep that had eaten Dimitri's hat.
Sergei idly pondered this situation, swinging his searchlight over the road lazily. The landscape had not changed since the last time he had done this, the same bushes, trees, and rocks that decorated the steppes of Afghanistan. What had changed, however, was the addition of a man, standing in the middle of the road, clutching a black box close to his chest, stumbling towards the base. Sergei's hands leapt to his gun.
“Freeze!” Sergei cried, brandishing his AK-74 towards the man. The unknown muttered something, and continued to stagger towards Sergei, arms clutching the box ever tighter. “Freeze!” Sergei shouted once more, thrusting his gun towards the interloper as if to spear him through.
“Russian, I'm Russian!” the man stated, coughing out the words. He collapsed forward, the box in his arms spilling outwards and skidding to a halt about 2 metres away. As Sergei cautiously approached, he saw the distinctive wear of a Spetznaz paratrooper, burnt and torn all over. The man's face was bloody and burned as well, but his eyes were alive and active, watching Sergei as he made his way towards their owner.
“The case! Check the case for damage before me.” The man suddenly barked, his voice raspy but strong as ever. “If the case is cracked you must run, tell your commander to abandon the base.” The man coughed again, harder than before. “What are you standing around for, check the case!”
“Why should I believe you? You show up here out of nowhere, and begin giving me orders? How do I know you are not a spy?” Sergei prided himself on being of a paranoid nature. Something about this whole situation was suspect, and he was already hesitant to take orders from an unknown, albeit probably Soviet, actor.
“Did you not hear me? If the case is cracked and you do not evacuate your lives are all going to end! I am not long for this world, allow me one thing and check that case!” The desperation seemed earnest, at least. Sergei edged towards the case, never taking his eyes off the man. When he reached the case, he crouched down slowly, holding his gun with one hand while feeling around the case with his other.
There was no damage aside from some superficial scratches, as far as he could tell. The box had a label taped to it, proudly proclaiming that it was the property of the GRU, Division-P. Sergei stood. The man's story certainly seemed more legitimate, now. Though he had never heard of Division-P.
“It's not damaged.”
“Take the box to your commander. Tell him that it must be defended. Tell him to tell his superiors.” The man smiled grimly, his face ashen. “Thank you.”
The man suddenly collapsed into his clothes, his flesh turning to dust before Sergei's eyes. A wind picked up, scattering the remains into the cool Afghanistan air. The night had suddenly gotten interesting. And, as he walked towards the base, cursing himself for ever asking anything of this cruel universe, far above Sergei's paygrade.
2:33
“The man, according to the documents in his clothes, was GRU agent Anton Fyodorovych. Obviously, we do not know why he was here or what he was doing. We also do not understand the reasons he apparently turned to ash.”
Base Commander Mikhail Aksakov had gathered his lieutenants after Sergei had informed him, with some convincing, of the situation. Sergei was out of his depth, unofficially. Officially, as the one who had contacted Fyodorovych, Sergei was now the resident expert on paranormal phenomena. Such was bureaucracy.
“As for the case, we have elected not to open it for the time being. It is currently secured in the armory. No one is to touch it.” Aksakov was obviously skeptical about the powers of the case (as was Sergei), but the consensus had been to let it lie. Better they let the GRU handle it. “I've had word sent to my commanders. We should hear from them shortly about what to do. Not a word of this leaves the room. Dismissed.”
Sergei was relieved. He would probably be debriefed by the GRU, but for now he was in the clear. The interesting part of the evening was thankfully over, and hopefully would not raise its ugly head again. He started prepping his gear to return to his post. Dimitri had been roped into covering for Sergei, and now he owed Dimitri four favors. Such was life.
“Sir, we could not relay the message to command. We suspect sabotage.” In Sergei's distraction, he had missed one of the radio operators entering the room. The news did not bode well. In the best-case scenario, it was just broken, in the worst, the Mujahideen had infiltrators in the base and were prepping for assault. The latter possibility seemed more likely, as the lights in the room suddenly went out as Sergei opened his mouth to ask for orders.
“Everyone on alert! Intruders in the base!” Aksakov immediately began barking out orders. Sergei rushed out the door, rifle in hand. The night refused to return to being uneventful, it seemed.
It also seemed far more hostile than before, as he stalked the streets of the former village. The headquarters was right in the center of the base, and search teams were to begin sweeping radially outward from the center. Sergei was currently trying to find his group. Safety in numbers, after all.
The sharp bark of gunfire snapped Sergei's head around. He rushed through the narrow alleys, paranoia creeping on him with every window and building he passed. A fighter could appear from anywhere within. Screaming had started as well. Sergei hoped it wasn't anyone he knew.
A rush of air in front of him. Sergei let loose a hail of bullets. To his surprise, he hit something. A man in black clothing appearing out of thin air, knife falling out of his hand as he collapsed. The body hit the ground, leaking blood onto the Afghan soil. Sergei didn't take the time to inspect it. He ran onwards, shooting at anything that moved and quite a few that didn't, his fear overwhelming his sense.
Suddenly, he halted. This was the place the first shots were fired. It was obvious from the bloodbath that had taken place.
The ground was littered with corpses, bloody and torn. At least three people, judging by the assortment of parts littering the ground. Dimitri was there, eyes glassy as he laid against a wall. Strange burns covered his face, almost treelike. Sergei lifted his hand and shut the eyes of his friend. That was one favor, he figured. Wretched smells reached Sergei's nose, no longer suppressed by the initial rush of adrenaline. Blood, and gunpowder, and something else that Sergei couldn't identify at first. Something sharp, and unfamiliar.
Ozone.
Fire coursed down Sergei's spine. The greatest pain imaginable to him, increased hundredfold. It was over as soon as it began but he was collapsed on the ground as it was done. He didn't remember falling. A fuzzy figure stepped into his field of view, in the same black uniform as the man Sergei had killed. He was speaking into a radio, in English. Sergei tried to push himself off the ground and realized that he couldn't feel his right arm.
Sergei struggled to his knees. The man who had electrocuted him was engrossed in his conversation and wouldn't notice if someone sunk a knife in his back. Sergei obliged him of this lapse in judgement and proceeded to do just that.
Releasing the cadaver, Sergei shook his head, trying to maintain his faculties. He was tired, his right arm barely worked, and he could hear more of his comrades being struck down by the intruding force. Sergei staggered towards the armory. The case was almost certainly the target of these forces, if their abilities and timing was any indication. Sergei needed a weapon he could wield with one hand. The pistol on the hip of the man he had just killed would have to do. An American revolver, fully loaded. Sergei supposed his luck was turning around. Reloading a gun with one hand was not something he was willing to do under pressure.
The streets were oddly peaceful now. Every so often he would see the body of a comrade, or one of the mysterious intruders. It may not have been as hopeless as it originally had seemed, but the streets were still empty of life, of those that could help or hinder him. The haven from the Mujahideen had become a mausoleum. Sergei made his way down the narrow paths between houses, constantly on watch for anything that could indicate another invisible foe.
The armory was a squat building that had originally been storage for grain, situated close nearby the headquarters. The thick walls made it ideal for holding the precious ammunition and weapons of the forces stationed at the base, as well as the case. It also made it very dangerous to assault. Sergei crept up alongside a short wall, keeping his silhouette low. From the flashlights visible through the barred windows, at least 2 people were in the building.
Sergei hoped that he wouldn't be shooting friendlies when he entered.
The question was answered as a large snap rang out from inside the armory, followed by screams. Ozone filled the air again as the soldiers inside the building suffered the same fate as Dimitri. Sergei rushed towards the building, revolver in hand.
Bursting through the door, Sergei did not hesitate to pull the trigger six times.
He managed to land a couple hits, but this individual was tougher than his allies. The intruder approached, bleeding from wounds in his arms and legs. Electricity coursed across his fingertips, and he began to fade from view as whatever mechanism made the attackers invisible activated. Sergei did not let him get the chance, closing the distance and stabbing forward with his knife. The gambit paid off, as the mysterious marauder stumbled in dodging the strike, returning to full visibility. Sergei refused to waste the opportunity, following with a series of strikes. It appeared that whatever uniform this assailant was wearing was more knife resistant than the last ones.
Sergei's target was not thrown off for too long, throwing a flurry of strikes with their fists, sparks flying across their knuckles. The quick shots of the punches preventing any significant charge from building, but what electricity was there lanced through Sergei. The pain was nothing but a reminder that he was still alive. Otherwise the dance was crude, and effective. Sergei unleashed a retort of slashes, catching the mask of the assailant. The fabric was not immune to cuts, and the strike left a deep gash along the cheek, into the flesh. Excellent.
Sergei changed his strategy, aiming for the neck and face over the less effective center of mass. His dance partner noticed and poured new vigour into his assault. The tempo increased, each absorbing or dodging hits until they could land the final strike.
Sergei won the bout, piercing the jugular with one quick thrust. His opponent fell to his knees. Blood poured from the throat as the lifeless body slumped sideways.
The armory was empty now, again. The bodies in the room were too burnt to be identified, though one had an epaulet of a captain on what remained of the uniform. There was a strange symbol carved into the dirt, perhaps by the attacker. Maybe he was an occultist, who knew? Sergei paid it almost no mind.
The case had sat on the shelf, untouched. It appeared that it was not what the assailants had been searching for. Sergei stared at the offending object. He had put so much work to reach it and it had sat here, mocking him the entire time.
Sergei decided he would look in the case to show the smug box who it was dealing with.
As he pushed off the clasps, he felt something course through him. Power. Whispers of secret strength, of his hearts desire if only he carried through. Something interesting, then. He threw off the lid.
Energy coursed through him, accompanied by honeyed words telling him exactly what he had now: the ability to exact revenge for what had happened here today. To finish his favors to Dimitri.
He was just about to use this newfound power to find who had massacred his comrades and make them pay when the world suddenly lit up and all was dawn.
The light scoured away what remained of the Soviet base, and Sergei with it.

+ you have 1 new message

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From:
vog.aic|kcotsob.g#vog.aic|kcotsob.g

To:
vog.dod|pohsib.r#vog.dod|pohsib.r

Subject:
Test results

Date:
03-10-1985

Hey Bob,
We tested those new toys your eggheads dreamed up. The invisibility and shock gear preformed as expected. But the real star was the light show you cooked up. When you told me to get the agents to scribble in the dirt after they had finished up testing the other stuff, I thought you had lost it! But the results speak for themselves. I got the video and pictures you wanted, its in the mail. So are all the full observations, all pretty and scientific like you asked. Too many words to say “earth shattering kaboom” if you ask me.
Oh, and I lost a fair few operatives in this little shindig. No one important but I don't have an unlimited supply of people crazy enough to test your gadgets but sensible enough to keep their traps shut. Not to mention the cover story for what your space laser did. What I'm saying is, you owe me one.
I'll see you next time I'm in DC. Shouldn't be more than a couple months.
Cheers,
Gerald Bostock
CIA-PENTAGRAM Liaison Officer


September 14th. Dusk. Dr. Zapata sits on his office alone, a bottle of whiskey on one hand, a handful of papers on the other. A small window on the side of the room displays the last few rays of sunlight before night falls. The only other light sources being the light shining from the corridor though a crack under the door, and the bright computer screen just to his right. He sits in silence, quietly viewing the papers in his hand without really reading through the information. Not like he has to, he has already gone though it 47 times this evening, and a couple hundred more over the past week. Hell, he'd probably be able to recite it by heart at this point. Every single word written in the documents is made in such a way that even a junior researcher might be able to understand its contents, and yet, the one part he's looking for shows the dreaded [DATA EXPUNGED] block. In his 11 years in the Foundation, few things he's ever cared about have ever been above his clearance level, but this one piece of information still evaded him.
He thought back to his time as a meek intern working on useless anomalous items and menial SCPs. It still felt like no time had passed between then and now, but in truth most of the time elapsed since his first days at the Foundation had come with massive changes in his life. He lost his family once he was offered the job after getting his degree in Linguistics, and being found by Dr. Cimmerian in the wrong place at the right time (namely unknowingly reading an anomalous book hidden within an anomalous library). He lost the love of his life after having to let her go in order to protect her from the dangers of working with the Foundation. Lost his friends from working overtime for 3 months in order to get promoted from Junior Researcher. All this loss, and still no progress.
He took a sip from the bottle, and kept on thinking back to the past. He remembered the first time he came into contact with what would become his obsession after all these years. It was an uneventful day at Site-27. Then Junior Researcher Zapata stood behind a group of doctors studying a number of books extracted from, coincidentally, the same place where he had been introduced to the anomalous. While cataloguing and uncovering some of the writings they had found, he noticed a faint glow coming from the outside of the room they were in. He remembers having tried to ignore it at first, but, after throwing a few glances at the door, he couldn't help but ask the girl standing beside him if she could also see the glow. Her look of confusion answered the question well enough. He excused himself, claiming he had to go to the bathroom (very unprofessional, yes) and moved to look for the source of the glow. After leaving the room, he noticed the light was coming from some place further than he had anticipated, down the hall and possibly going down a flight of stairs. At the same time, he noticed how nobody seemed to notice the glow but him. Ignoring both his gut feeling and his logic, he headed towards the source of the light.
After maybe 20 minutes of walking, and having already gone down 16 levels, as well as having passed by three or four Keter-class containment cells, he finally saw the source of the light, now brighter than before, coming from behind a closed door. He moved to open it, but was stopped by a guard. “You can't enter this room. You don't have the clearance”. He attempted to enter again, but the guard simply repeated the phrase again, before pushing him away and returning to his stance. He returned to his post and apologized for the delay, and slowly, the glow faded away from both his sight and his memory. It would be another 6 months before he would see the glow again. This time it would be during lunchtime at the site cafeteria. Once more, he excused himself, telling his mates that he needed to attend some important business, and once more descended into the facility's deepest floors. Again he would reach the door from which the light emanated, and yet again he would come face to face with a guard telling him that he didn't have the clearance. This incident would repeat itself a couple of times over the next year, until, eventually, he set out to get the clearance he required.
The road ahead wasn't easy. It took him nearly three years to finally get to a position to ask about the glow, and it was one of the first things he did as a researcher. He remembered the face the Site Director made after being asked about what was behind the door. “You aren't supposed to know about that, how did you learn about that place?” It took some convincing, but the Director eventually believed the glow that brought him to the door. And yet, he was met with the same answer: “I can't tell you what's behind that door, you don't have the clearance”. It was clear that he did not look happy with that answer, because the Director continued “At least, you don't have the clearance yet, but if you do get to the right rank, I will show you what's behind that door”. And so, he set out to climb the ladder once more.
And yet, after all this time he hadn't made an inch of progress. Once he got the title of Doctor, he managed to get his hands on some documentation related to what was only referred to as ‘Anomalous Item 6A616D-636F6E', and even that was only a couple of files filled with [REDACTED]s, [DATA EXPUNGED]s and █████s. But even then, the ever-elusive Level 4 Clearance remained unattainable. And the glow remained ever-present in the periphery, or in the back of his head, always calling out to him. He couldn't wait another three or four years for a senior member of the staff to vacate their position, he had to know.
Doctor Zapata took a big gulp of what remained of his drink, and headed out of the office. By then it was already late night, as he had spent nearly 5 hours inside his office brooding, and yet, undeterred by the few remaining lights left in the facility, he headed to the Site Director's office, and went in without even knocking. “Zapata, what are you doing here?” His desperate face yet again did the talking for him, as the Director replied almost immediately “Oh, you want to know what's behind the door?” He nodded. The Site Director took a long breath. “Alright, you have done enough to warrant more answers than you have gotten. I'll take you to the door”.
The walk down to the lower levels of Site-27 was a long one, filled with both dread and anticipation. The glow was now strong enough to burn through his eyelids, and many questions burned with it. What was behind this door? Why did it glow only to him? All this passed through his head as they reached the bottom of the facility, and came to stand in front of the door. The guars was nowhere to be seen, and the only light source he could find was that which remained behind the closed door. The Director looked at him with caution “Are you sure you want to see what's behind this door? The glow is only seen by a few for a good reason” His silence settled that issue, and with determination he moved towards the door. He took the card given to him by the man besides him, and swiped it upwards though the scanner.
1…
2…
3…
The scanner's light turned green, and the door clicked. He slowly pushed it to the side, finally able to see that which had tormented him for the past 9 years…
But what that was, I can't tell you, you don't have the clearance.


October 31st

7:25 P.M.

Despite the reassurance it gave Heather that her mothers were okay with her spending the night without them, she still wasn't prepared for how exhausting it would be. Forget introducing herself to nearly every parent who asked who she was ("I moved in not too long ago" was believable enough). Meeting up with her first new real-life friend in a lifetime felt like a whole other challenge. There weren't any issues between her and Willow; they spoke quite a bit online, and Heather was the one to suggest they meet in the first place, given how close they lived to each other.
It was that her first night out of the house since earlier that year was spent with someone else at all.
The one thought plaguing Heather's mind was whether Willow would know that she was actually an anomaly. Thankfully, her "costume"1 didn't come off as cheap or suspicious so Willow never thought to check. She was unexpectedly receptive to the (partially-true) excuse that Heather didn't want to take off her TV due to anxiety and worry. It was a relief to completely avoid the subject. Willow's voice was still crystal-clear in her memory:
"Even in-person, you're fun to hang out with."
Even in-person, she's fun to hang out with.
Even in-person, she's fun…
It bounced around in her head again and again. She's fun! It was almost impossible to believe. Was it okay that this was going so well? Did it matter? Of course that was a good thing to be told, but the worry for what her new dear friend could have otherwise meant plagued her.
"I gotta stop overthinking it… I'm sure she meant what she said."
Conveniently, they split up for a brief moment to take care of personal errands. They'd meet up soon at Maria's, a local convenience store, where she needed to head anyway to pick up stuff for her moms. She could freely talk to herself, at least if no one else was around.
It was right when she realized that she suddenly thought of Willow as dear that her phone buzzed. A text message from Dahlia.
after youre done with halloween please remember to pick up some tater!

Tater? What could she have meant by that? Potatoes, right? Did they sell potatoes at the convenience store? How many should she get? Maybe she should ask? But what if she meant water? Didn't they already have water at home? Actually, was it even possible to carry enough water by herself all the way home? It'd be too much of a burden to ask Willow. She really should ask —
The sound of puppies yipping behind a fence froze Heather in place. It was bad enough to hear them nearby, but it was doubly concerning when she wasn't able to see them. Personal experience taught her that suddenly running would result in being chased, while slowly walking forward would be her best bet. So why couldn't she move? The store wasn't too far away…
In an instant, the house across the street suddenly filled up with lights and the undecipherable chatter of a horde of partygoers. The dogs decided to join in with a choir of yelps and barks, and the collective noise nearly engulfed her altogether.
"Hhhh —" Heather squealed out as she tried to keep from yelling, bolting away from the scene as best as she could.

7:36 P.M.

will do!

"I guess they do sell potatoes after all…"
The grocery ambiguity was cleared up, and the only remaining question was how many she needed to buy. One for each of them of course, but a fourth wouldn't hurt. There was more than enough money for that, and she could even pick up something for herself as well.
It didn't occur to her that they came in bags and that she couldn't pick up a specific number of potatoes until she went inside Maria's to check what they had. There were two-pound bags, three-pound and so on, with different types, and all of it slid off of her. Maybe she really should have asked how much to get, but it might be too bothersome if she sent a follow-up text. The cashier might help.
Heather walked over to the counter, inwardly screaming out to whatever spirits were there that the older-looking lady manning the night shift wouldn't ask too many questions. Grownups don't just take off costumes from people trick-or-treating, after all. Unfortunately,
"Hello ma'am, may I help you with anything tonight?"
she couldn't get in the first word.
"U-Uh, hi, well, I was just wondering, potatoes — er, about the potatoes… can I b.. buy them individually?" Any remote attempt at a calmer facade completely vanished with that, so all she could do was hope that it'd go by quickly.
"We do not, only by the bag. How many were you looking to buy?"
"F… four…"
"Do you know what kind?" She could only stare at the shelf of candy, unable to remember what types she had even seen before going for help. Even the dogs were less intimidating; maybe going out in public was a bad idea after all. After four seconds stretched into years, the older lady giggled. "It's no big deal, miss. I'm only familiar with red ones myself. Do you know what your taste preferences are?"
"Um…" Did they all taste different? "B… c… cheap." The lady giggled again, and she felt like a crater in the ground.
"Alright then. Let me grab our cheapest kind for you." She came out behind the counter and went to the aisles.
Now that things were done, she could meet Willow and rush home. It was amazing that she came off as fun somehow when she was able to act like this. Her effort was commendable, but this was as best as she could do.
"By the way," the woman called out as she walked back with what sounded like a light bag. Heather instinctively looked up.
"Huh?" As Martha2 began to speak, Heather felt regret smash into her chest.
"Is it alright to take off your TV helmet? You look exhausted in that."
"N-No Mass! Miss! Miss Martha. I'm good, I promise!" she replied (too quickly).
"Are you sure? Just because it's chilly out doesn't mean that thing can't overheat you. Besides, if —"
Heather grabbed a random chocolate bar, and before she realized it, she shoved it to Martha. She felt finished.
"U-Um…"
"Really dear, it's fine, nothing to worry about." She scanned the items, continuing to smile. Even if it was fake, it was barely enough reprieve from the situation.
"Now then…" As if on cue, Willow entered the store, waving at the two of them.
"Heather!" Her voice was the same, but it felt more mature (if forced) than earlier. While strange, it was undeniably her. "Don't worry, I'll cover it," she said.
She had set her free from this hell, and that's all that mattered. There was nothing that Heather felt she could say in response to that, so she stepped back to head outside, relief carefully balanced out by guilt.
It took a couple of minutes before Willow stepped out, bag in tow. It took a little time for Martha to get the reason for her head to stay on. Thankfully the excuse was convienent enough for even her to understand. Hopefully this means the end of it. Her dear friend waved at her again.
"Ah, Willow, thank you so much…"
"Of course, no problem at all. Would you mind if we tried trick or treating at one or two more houses before we finish for the night? I don't have to be picked up for a little bit more."
"O-Oh, sure, I don't mind." So much for her plan to go home, but maybe it wouldn't be bad to spend a little more time outside, especially with a caring friend.
"Thank you. Let's walk back to your neighborhood. Here's your stuff." She handed the potatoes and chocolate to Heather and dumped the change into her candy bag. Willow's personality softened and her presence more reserved. It felt more natural, closer to how it was earlier in the day. "Not having candy for dinner tonight?"
"N-Not really no. My mom asked me to buy these anyhow."
Heather looked at the bag, too exhausted to actually parse what type these were. Opening the bag didn't help either. She'd figure it out later.
"I'm sorry for making you pay, I had money on me so I can pay you back if you want."
"You don't need to pay me back," Willow said. "Just as long as I can have your chocolate instead."
"Sure, feel free…" Willow beamed, bumping into Heather to grab the chocolate before immediately opening the wrapper and biting right into the bar. Tonight really was better than she'd ever expect it to be.
Neither of them noticed that in the collision, one of the four potatoes fell out of the bag and onto the road, nor did they notice the puppies that ran over to the fallen potato.

7:44 P.M.

"Trick or treat!"
The two had arrived at their final house of the night. The decorations were far more minimal and subdued than the other homes they visted. As the door opened however, they could see that the inside was adorned with an egregious amount of Halloween displays and props than the outside.
"Happy Halloween!" The old man who opened the door smiled, handing Willow a good chunk. "I hope you kids are having a fine night."
"Yes we are," they both replied.
"May I ask what your costumes are?"
"Audrey Horne!" Willow exclaimed proudly.
"A robot named… Ca… um… why are there only a couple skeletons out here?" Heather questioned nervously.
"Ahh, yes, I needed to decorate the house. There just wasn't enough for the outside when I hung everything up." Neither were sure on what to say; it was the exact opposite of what people typically have problems with for the holiday. "Are those red potatoes you have?"
"O-Oh, yes."
"Ahh, wonderful choice. I was thinking of having some around this time of year, but I haven't found the time to head to the store lately. Say, would you mind if I had one?"
"Huh?"
Heather felt sure she missed the conversation taking a turn at some point. She decided to look in the bag of potatoes for help, only to find three instead of four. While she was better equipped to handle this mishap, it still felt fatiguing to deal with.
"Did you see how many potatoes were in here?"
"I'm pretty sure there were just four. Is one missing?"
"Yeah. I think so."
"Would either of you girls care for more candy in exchange for one potato? Our block didn't have as many kids this year, but my house got even less than usual. Maybe because I didn't have as many decorations outside this year…"
If Heather had a knife, she'd be able to cut through how fantastical her night was. What better to top it off than this? This was all she was able to do to reframe the situation into something she could better cope with. It was fortunate that she didn't need to get many potatoes in the first place anyhow, what'd be the harm in giving this man one as well? Just like resource management.
"Here you go, mister…" She handed one of the three potatoes to the man, who smiled.
"Thank you very much, Miss Television. You know, my son-in-law loves red potatoes almost as much as I do."
"Does he now," Willow said in confusion.
"His dogs especially love playing with them. It's an unbelivable sight! They're only a year or so old and they still bat them around like toys! He has to buy them at the store more than most people would because of that."
The air hung in awkward silence as an elipsis blinked on her monitor.

8:29 P.M.

"I'm hooome," Heather called out.
"Hi sweetie! Be right there! Making soup for mommy!" Dahlia replied.
It felt right to be back after a rollercoaster of a day, and she could take pride in all she accomplished. She'd impress her moms, and hopefully even her friends as well. Progress was incremental, after all.
Her shoes flew off as she ran to hug her mom. She found Dahlia in the kitchen over the stove, the smell of soup draping the room. Immediately, she locked onto her, TV nuzzling her head.
"Welcome home. How was your day, hun?"
"I survived. My friend Willow was super nice and no one took my head off. Plus," she said as she held up the bag of potatoes. "I bought what you asked for! I needed help but I did it."
"Nice! Thank you very much for…" As Dahlia looked in the bag, her words came to a halt and a mild look of confusion took hold on her face. "Mags."
"Yeah?"
Dahlia took out and placed the two potatoes by the sink.
"This isn't Gatorade."

Footnotes
1. A hoodie that resembled the pattern of a certain TV-head android, but it meshed up enough with her TV for the night.
2. Maybe she should have looked at her nametag earlier.