"So, um… this whole Hartle Anomaly thing seems to be heating up. Think they'll send us in?"
"Hartle's scientific, not paranormal," Bullfrog said, as he carefully replaced the battery cover on a slim, 3 inch LCD screen. "We don't do scientific."
"'Scientific' can become 'paranormal' in an instant," Fartboy pointed out. He turned the page of his magazine. "Line between normal and weird's a fuzzy one, and this looks like it's about to tip over."
"Well, then, when they send us in, you'll get to say 'I told you so.' Until then, focus on the mission." Bullfrog flipped a switch on the side of the little screen, nodded in satisfaction, then turned the monitor back off and slid it into its pouch on his backpack.
"Yes, sir, team leader sir, abso-fucking-lutely Semper Fi Do or Die Airborne fucking Garry Owen Who Dares Wins, team leader," Fartboy muttered, turning the page.
"Heads up," Kitten said. "Spook and stars incoming."
Bullfrog glanced over at the barracks door. "I don't see…"
Two sharp knocks, followed by the door opening, letting in a brief gust of hot desert air. Two men walked into the room. One was a short, incredibly ugly man with a cheshire-cat smile wearing an expensive but shabby black suit. The other man was tall, barrel-chested, and had a bearing so military that the stick up his ass probably had campaign ribbons and a Silver Star.
"Don't you fucking people salute?" the military man growled.
"Actually, no, General," the smiling man in the suit said. "We're technically a civilian organization under the—"
"Civilians. God. Don't remind me. Bunch of fucking sheep, bean-counters, and fat lazy fucks. Aren't you going to introduce me?"
"I was just getting to that," the smiling man said. "Team Sparkplug, meet General Bowe. General Bowe, Team Sparkplug is one of our top infiltration and assessment teams. Their real names are classified, of course, but you can call them Bullfrog, Kitten, and Fartboy."
General Bowe frowned at the sandy-haired young man sitting with his feet up on the table, flipping through an issue of TIME magazine. "Fartboy? What the fuck kind of name for a soldier is Fartboy?"
"I didn't pick it, General. They, ummmm… gave it to me after the first time I failed stalking course at scout-sniper school," Fartboy admitted sheepishly. "In my defense, they served red beans and rice at the mess hall the night before."
"Really. Well, ain't that just fucking great," General Bowe muttered sarcastically. "Well? Tell them the news."
The smiling man's expression didn't change from its fixed, mirthless grin. "Mission's scrapped," he said shortly. "Word's come down from the top. We are no longer assessing the target, we are assaulting it."
"Fuck," Bullfrog growled. "That's exactly what we need. A blind assault into a secured structure. Fan-fucking-tastic."
"Well, then, you're in luck. You're not assaulting, you're overwatch. The assault and perimeter security elements are coming from Pandora's Box," the smiling man said.
The silence in the room was palpable.
"Boss?" Bullfrog said, slowly and carefully. "Can we talk?"
"Of course, Bull. General, may I have a moment to speak to my team in private?"
"Take your time, Director. Boys."
"Pandora's Box is active?" Bullfrog asked, once the General had left the room.
"This is going to be their first mission," the smiling man said. "From what I've heard from on high, General Bowe is being pressured to justify his budget: not surprising in this economy. He asked for this one, and they gave it to him."
"And what did they give us in return for stepping all over our territory?"
"Don't worry about that part, Bull. Let the Scary Lady and her Twelve Evil Minions worry about that."
"I've uhhh… I've got a concern," Fartboy said, raising his hand. "This ain't our field of expertise, Boss. Assaulting a building's a job for Strike, not Assessment. We're not exactly equipped for it."
"I'm aware. General Bowe has generously offered to loan us the use of some equipment from his armory."
"Kitten?" Bullfrog asked.
"We'll need uniforms to match what the rest of them are wearing. Body armor too. We brought our weapons, but we need ammo," Kitten said curtly.
"You didn't bring ammo?"
"I packed some ammo, but this was supposed to be a covert assessment mission. If we needed to start shooting, things would be fucked to pieces, so I spent our weight allowance on other things. Like COLLICULUS." Kitten frowned. "Damn. I need to train the perimeter team on setting up the nodes. Any of them trained to use COLLIC?
"Not that I know of, no," the smiling man said.
"I'll pre-calibrate the emitters for them, then," Kitten said. "That way they can just turn them on and slap them to the outside of the target building. I won't get as good a picture, but it should be fine."
"Out of curiosity, how were you planning on disguising the nodes, anyway?" Fartboy asked.
"I wasn't. R&D gave me this little drill-robot thing. I was going to tunnel under the building from the sewer systems."
"Oh. Neat."
"Any other questions?" the smiling man asked.
"I want a complete briefing on the assault plan and our place in it," Bullfrog said.
"The assault plan you'll have to get from General Bowe or one of his subordinates. As for your place in it… same as before. Infiltrate, observe, assess, and report. This is General Bowe's show, not ours. If all goes well, you'll just watch the mission take place and report the details back to us."
"And if it doesn't?" Bullfrog asked.
"If it doesn't? Consult the handbook and do what you feel is best. Good luck, team."
"This is fucked," Fartboy sighed, once the smiling man had left the room.
"Yeah, I know, "Bullfrog said. "All right, then. Time to fucking unpack. Kitten?"
"I'm on it. What do we need?"
"5.56 and 9mm for you and me. Fartboy?"
"7.62 and .45," Fartboy said.
"I'm on it." Kitten turned and left the room quickly. She always did things quickly if she could afford to.
"You know," Fartboy noted, "General Bowe is obviously not a student of mythology." He opened up a battered rifle case and pulled out a heavily customized sniper rifle.
"The Pandora's Box thing? If I recall, the box contained Hope, didn't it?" Bullfrog opened up his own weapon case and pulled out an M-4, checking the chamber for a live round before continuing his inspection of his weapon.
"Hope, yeah. Also a whole bunch of pain, misery, and suffering." Fartboy frowned as he wiped a speck of dust off the lens of his rifle scope with a soft cloth. "I dunno. Maybe it's just because I think he's an asshole."
"No, you're right. General Bowe is deluding himself, and he's detached from reality. Did you catch the last thing that he said before he walked out? He called us 'boys.' Even Kitten."
"In his defense, that's an easy mistake to make."
"Maybe. Or maybe it's a sign of rigid thinking. Making assumptions without fact-checking," Bullfrog said.
"We're fucked, aren't we?"
"That's a distinct possibility, yeah."

"Some day," Fartboy sighed, "someone will invent body armor that lets me scratch where it itches and I will fucking marry him. Or her. Or it." He glanced over at Kitten, who was in the middle of doing a ridiculous number of pull-ups at a frankly disquieting pace. "Is that smart? I mean, what if you wear yourself out?"
"Keyed up. Nervous. Need to burn off energy or I'll get the shakes." Kitten dropped down from the pull-up bar and switched to doing push-ups. "I can rest on the way in."
"Suit yourself. 'Sup, Bull."
"'Sup, Fartboy. Kitten. Got our orders. They want us to stay in the helicopter and provide airborne sniper support. Since they're expecting little to no civilian resistance, we should just be sitting there and watching it all go down." Bullfrog scoffed. "Also, the check is in the mail, air support is on the way, and I'm only going to put in the tip."
"God Bless America Hoorah Tally-Ho and Molon Fucking Labe," Fartboy muttered.
"You got that right. Fartboy, you all set? How about you, Kitten? You ready to go, or do you want to run a marathon first?"
"I'm set, boss. Let's go." Kitten finished one last push-up, dusted off her hands, then picked up her backpack and a large equipment case.
"Yeah. Let's get this over with," Fartboy said, picking up his own backpack and rifle.
They were walking across the tarmac towards their helicopter when Kitten paused and turned towards a small group of men gathered around a Black Hawk. "Tall, Dark, and Lethal at three o'clock."
It wasn't unusual for men to walk around without their shirts on in the desert heat. What was unusual were the jagged-edged red tattoos that covered every inch of the tall, olive-skinned man's body. There was a massive steel collar around his neck, and steel manacles bound his hands. A dozen men in full body armor, carrying assault rifles, kept their weapons trained on him at all times.
The tall man paused and turned to face them. Fartboy felt a cold chill in his gut as their eyes met. Shark's eyes, he thought. Killer's eyes. Nothing behind them but death and war.
Then someone prodded the stranger with the muzzle of his rifle, and the strange tableau continued across the tarmac and into the helicopter.
"That him?" Kitten asked.
"Yeah," Bullfrog said. "Subject Able, a.k.a. Rascal One. You've seen the video?"
"Yes," Kitten said. "Impressive."
"Impressive, hell, try fucking terrifying. We should be blowing that guy away, not weaponizing him."
"We did. Nine times. He just keeps coming back," Bullfrog pointed out.
"Fan-fucking tastic. And he's one of the good guys."
"So are we. Game faces, people."

"ALL THINGS CONSIDERED, IT'S NOT GOING SO BADLY!" Bullfrog shouted over the sound of the helicopter rotors.
Fartboy nodded back. He was lying on the floor of the helicopter on a padded foam mattress, scanning the surrounding city through his scope. Aside from a few looky-loo types cautiously watching the men in helicopters descending upon the building, things were quiet. No one was waving a gun around or inciting the crowds to violence. He honestly wasn't surprised. This wasn't Baghdad or Kabul: people around here didn't often see men with guns walking around. They hadn't yet learned to associate soldiers with violence and chaos.
"COLLIC is up," Kitten said into her headset mic. She tapped a button on her tablet computer and watched a progress bar fill up for a couple of seconds. When the screen cleared, an image of the target building and the surrounding city block appeared. The buildings themselves were ghostly white and translucent, as were the inanimate objects within. People appeared as black silhouettes surrounded by an aura of multicolored flame.
Except one: a particularly tall and lanky silhouette in the lead assault helicopter, who leaped twenty feet down onto the roof of the target building, disdaining the use of the fast-rope. That one's aura was a deep, dark violet, so dark it was nearly black. It flicked its wrists, and a pair of cruel, hooked blades appeared in its hands, laced with black fire.
"Huh," Kitten said. "Interesting."
"What is?"
"The swords. We'd always suspected they were alive somehow. This confirms that."
Down on the roof, the rest of the assault team had disembarked and were racing across the rooftop. Two of them, carrying big, plate-like breaching charges, were waved off by Rascal One, who simply cut the door off its hinges with his swords and kicked it in.
The next few minutes were like a symphony of slaughter. Panicked men, roused from sleep by the sound of helicopters and gunfire, emerged from their beds shooting, and were ruthlessly cut down. Life-auras flared brightly in pain and terror, and were just as quickly snuffed out. One particularly brave enemy tried to jump the assault team with a knife. He ended up hurled out a third-story window in three pieces.
"What was the target suspected of again, Bull?" Fartboy asked.
"Suspected "Type White" immortal. He's supposed to be five hundred years old. No other paranormal traits. If it weren't for his politics I don't think anyone would give a shit."
"Oh. In that case, all this seems rather excessive," Fartboy mused. Down below, a terrified teenage boy with an assault rifle was cut in half with a giant curved scimitar.
"Rather," Kitten said, mildly.
"Pandora One to all units. Package is secure. I say again, package is secure." On Kitten's screen, six men were grouped around a seventh, who was lying on the ground face-down with his hands on his head.
If anything is going to go wrong, Bullfrog thought, now's when it's going to happen.
A black-aura'd figure walked into the room, slashed the man on the ground into pieces, then cut down the six others swiftly and methodically.
I hate being right.

"HOLY SHIT! RASCAL ONE IS AMOK! RASCAL ONE IS—" the voice of the terrified soldier on the ground was cut off in a scream of pain and a gurgle of blood.
"HIT THE SWITCH! HIT THE SWITCH!"
The figure in black clawed at its throat. A moment later, all the windows on the bottom two floors of the building blew outward in a shower of glass and dust.
A moment after that, Rascal One emerged from the building. His left arm was a mangled mess below the shoulder. The left side of his body was bloody and torn to pieces. Parts of it still smouldered. But his right hand still held a sword of pitch blackness.
Things got a bit crazy after that.
"SLIPPED CHAIN! I SAY AGAIN, SLIPPED CHAIN!"
"He's out of the building! He's out of the building!"
"We need a medevac, now!"
"Do not take this helicopter down!" Bullfrog shouted in response to that last panicked cry.
"Fuck you! Those are my guys down there!" the pilot shouted back.
Down below, the first helicopter attempting to evacuate the casualties was sliced in half by a thrown sword. The pilot stopped arguing and took the helicopter back up.
"Give me your radio," Bullfrog said grimly. He plugged in his headset and switched to a frequency that didn't appear on the comms order.

The smiling man was not surprised when Bullfrog called in on the secure frequency. Disappointed, maybe. Surprised, no.
"You seeing this, boss?"
"Yes," the smiling man said. "General Bowe is rather upset, to say the least. They're getting ready to send in an airstrike. Your assessment?"
A short pause, probably so that Bullfrog could shout some profanity without it appearing on the official record. "Boss, by the time they get aircraft overhead, Able's going to be in the city proper. It'll take saturation bombing to flush him out. If the Americans bomb this city, it's going to be bad. We're talking international destabilization bad, not to mention Ban-Ki's gonna be pissed."
"Can you do it, then?"
Another, somewhat longer pause. "Yeah, Boss. Give the word and we'll pull it off."
"The word is given. Out."
The smiling man stood up and cleared his throat. "Gentlemen!" he shouted, over the confused din. "I'm taking over. Under Article 45 of the United Nations Charter, the Special Agreement between the U.N. Security Council and the government of the United States of America, and Article 9 of the Global Occult Coalition Charter, this is now a GOC operation…"

The first thing that Kitten did was take off her body armor. From what she'd seen, it didn't seem to do any good against Rascal One's black sword, and she couldn't afford the extra weight. She left most of her ammo behind too: if her plan worked, one magazine was all she'd need. If it didn't, an extra mag wouldn't help.
She did bring the knife, though.
When the helicopter descended to ten feet, she jumped off and hit the ground rolling. Bullfrog tossed her rifle to her, and she turned and ran into the target building's courtyard.
Her blood sang. This was a part of the job she didn't get to do very often, but when she did, it was an absolute joy.
She started firing her rifle from the hip the moment she saw Rascal One: she didn't care about hits, only getting his attention. She transitioned to her pistol on the run and emptied that too. Then she threw the empty pistol at him - which he caught and threw back at her - so she dodged that and took the last ten meters at a sprint.
All her energy, all her tension that she kept bottled up and hidden behind her cold reserve and iron self-control, exploded like a grenade.

"Kitten," Bullfrog had often thought, was a singularly inappropriate nickname for a six foot tall, musclebound amazon. "Cheetah," maybe. "Tiger," perhaps. But "Kitten?" It smacked of sexism and a deeply entrenched patriarchal attitude that reduced women to childish cuteness. Or maybe it was meant ironically. He'd have to ask her about that sometime.
He also hated how it was always in the moments of deepest tension that he worried about the dumbest things.
The pilot put them down on the roof of a nearby building. Bullfrog jumped out first, carrying the foam mat and Kitten's tablet computer. Fartboy followed, cradling his rifle to his chest like an infant. He ran to the edge of the roof and quickly set up his shooting position, then looked through his scope.
And immediately frowned. "Jesus, they're moving fast."
"Can you take the shot?"
"Uhhhh… no. I can't even keep them in my sights. Sorry, Bull."
Was it worth telling Kitten to slow down? No. From what he could see, she had her hands full just keeping him from eviscerating her. No energy to spare a breath replying, and distracting her now could be fatal. She was getting tired, too. No matter how fast or tough she was, she was still human, and Rascal One was practically a god: even half-blown to hell, he was more than a match for her.
Which meant he'd probably have to go down there and help. Damn it.
"All right, I'm going in," Bullfrog sighed. "No matter what happens, if you see the shot, take it."
"Don't have to tell me twice. Good luck, Bull."
"Fuckin' A." Bull kicked down the door and started running down the stairs, muttering a brief apology to the terrified civilians huddled inside. If he was going to go out there, he reflected, he was going to need a bigger gun.

Kitten was going to die.
Not her fault. Rascal One was just faster, stronger, and better than she was. He didn't get tired. She did. He didn't feel pain. She did.
She took some solace in the fact that she'd lasted about two minutes longer than anyone else she'd seen fight him. That was something, at least.
It was going to happen soon. She was going to make a mistake, and then she would die. It sucked but there was nothing she could do about it.
She stepped back a bit too far and lost her balance.
He came to kill her.
But he stopped as a long burst from a Squad Automatic Weapon stitched through the air between them.
"Hey asshole!" Bullfrog shouted. "Your mother sucks goat cocks!"
He fired a second burst from the light machine gun, only to see Rascal One swat the bullets out of the air with his sword. Something about that triggered a memory in Kitten's mind, and she threw her knife at him.
Which Rascal One immediately grabbed out of the air.
Which occupied his one good hand so he couldn't manifest a sword.
Which let Bullfrog's next SAW burst take his legs out from under him.
Which was followed by Fartboy's rifle firing ten times in rapid succession, pulping Able's head like a cantaloupe.
Just to be sure, Kitten took the time to smash his spine into pulp with a cinder block.
Only then did she let herself relax.

It was a very nice cabin, and a very nice lake, the smiling man had to admit. A perfect place to spend a week getting away from the world… or in self-imposed exile, hiding from public disgrace.
Civilian clothing didn't suit General Bowe. His big, broad chest looked sad and empty without its ribbons and medals. The tumbler of ice and vodka by his side completed the tragic picture.
"I just got word from the Secretary of Defense," he said. "Project Pandora is over. They're canceling our budget and liquidating our assets." He raised his glass in ironic salute. "Motherfuckers."
Liquidating assets. Such a nice, clean term for mass executions. Palmdale Base was going to become an abbatoir. The smiling man shuddered inwardly at that mental image. "That's going to be difficult for some of your assets," he pointed out. "Able comes to mind."
"They're going to dig a giant mine shaft and put the box at the bottom of ten thousand tons of solid concrete. Fucking waste," General Bowe muttered.
"Maybe it's for the best," the smiling man said. "Some things we simply can't control or destroy… and we're not in the business of storing these things, either."
"Huh." General Bowe took a big gulp of his vodka and stared hard into the sunset. "Speaking of which, I was reviewing the tapes of the operation the other day."
"Oh?" the smiling man asked.
"Yeah. That big scary bitch? We clocked her at about 80 kph on her last sprint. Only for a couple of seconds, but that's almost twice as fast as Usain Fucking Bolt."
"Ah," the smiling man said.
"And that blond kid with the stupid name? He mag-dumped an M-14 DMR into a man's head from a distance of 300 yards. In about two seconds."
"Hm," the smiling man said.
"Care to explain?"
The smiling man stared into the sunset for a long while. When the sun had finally disappeared behind the hills, and only the grey twilight remained, he finally spoke. "Arms research tends to focus on the exotic. Politicians and generals want big, flashy, exciting advancements. Aircraft carriers. Fighter jets. Tanks. An immortal warrior with magic swords. But if you ask a soldier what he really wants, the answers get more prosaic. A better rifle that never jams. A communications system that doesn't cut out. Pants that don't rip."
"… a sniper who never misses a clean shot?"
"Mmm."
"I thought those were the types of people your outfit was supposed to kill."
"Our job is to protect humanity from the paranormal, yes. But the line between the normal and paranormal is often… fuzzy." The smiling man checked his watch and stood up. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with NASA. Seems like there might be something odd going on with the Hartle Anomaly. Good evening, General."


Here's what you have to keep in mind about the Cold War.

August 19, 1949: The first Soviet atomic bomb test.
Faced with the loss of the nuclear monopoly, and seeking to maintain the American technological advantage, President Truman orders a massive rearmament program which includes greatly increased investment in the nascent field of parascientific weapons research. The Foundation, determined to remain free of US and Soviet control, relocates their most sensitive and powerful objects to the non-aligned nations of Egypt, Yugoslavia, and Indonesia. Much of the parascientific material left behind falls into government hands.
“No other value system is so wholly irreconcilable with ours, so implacable in its purpose to destroy ours, so capable of turning to its own uses the most dangerous and divisive trends in our own society – and no other has the support of a great and growing center of military power.”
-Dean Acheson, 1950
4/25/1950: North Korean troops cross the 38th parallel, igniting the Korean War. The war sees the commitment of the vast majority of America's standing army as well as the field deployment of Euclid-level assets for the first time in US history.
“Our military organization today bears little relation to that known by any of my predecessors in peacetime, or indeed by the fighting men of World War II or Korea.” -Ike Eisenhower, 1961
10/19/1956: Seeking to end Egyptian president Gamal Nasser's sheltering of the Foundation, the militaries of France, Israel, and England launch joint attacks on the Suez Canal zone.

“The very word "secrecy" is repugnant in a free and open society; and we as a people decided long ago that the dangers of excessive and unwarranted concealment of pertinent facts far outweighed the dangers which are cited to justify it.” -John F. Kennedy, 1961
August, 1962. Soviet authorities deploy multiple strategic nuclear missiles to Cuba, throwing the United States into panic.
“I would like to address for a moment the Cuban people directly. These new weapons are not in your interest. They contribute nothing to your peace and well-being. They can only undermine it.” -JFK, 1962
The resulting thirteen-day diplomatic stand-off is interrupted when the commanders of the Cuban garrison detonate their warheads on their launch pads. Havana's last broadcasts prior to its destruction consist of largely unintelligible distress signals. Soviet authorities strenuously deny the presence of parascientific weaponry on the island.
August 4, 1964: US destroyer Maddox reports an engagement with North Vietnamese torpedo boats. This incident serves as justification for the uninhibited commitment of US forces into the twenty-year old Indochina Wars.
“It is my considered conviction, shared throughout the Government, that firmness in the right is indispensable today for peace; that firmness will always be measured. Its mission is peace.” -Lyndon Johnson, 1964
1961-1971: Over the course of a decade, the United States Air Force deploys over Vietnam some 20,000,000 gallons of nanodigesters and folomites engineered by the Global Occult Coalition. More than eight million Vietnamese are killed or injured and hundreds of thousands continue to be born with severe birth defects as the colonies of robodefoliants adapt to and disrupt the local fauna and flora.
“Any attempt to direct these wonders and nightmares is as fruitless as efforts to understand them — and far more dangerous.” -John Foster Dulles, 1972

November 4, 1979: 52 American citizens are taken hostage when an angry mob storms the US embassy in Tehran. After five months of failed negotiations, President Carter orders Operation Eagle Claw, the strategic deployment of over eighteen distinct anomalous entities and organisms intended to cripple Iran's infrastructure prior to an Iraqi invasion.
Unforeseen consequences of such extensive cross-contamination render much of Iran uninhabitable in a matter of months.
“The utter supremacy of our ideology justifies every endeavor undertaken to preserve our way of life.” -Ike Eisenhower, 1949
Harry Truman only did what he thought was right, which turned out to be the problem. After Carter came Reagan, and that's when things started to happen.

« | The Woodvale Incident | Hub | Matryoshka »


Alai swiped her card again. The door remained closed. She frowned, biting her lip, and swiped the card again. Still nothing.
To the outside observer, Alai would have looked like a befuddled tropical fish that had somehow managed to swim hundred of miles inland just to land in the middle of a cement hallway. Her complexly-layered clothing was bright red, yellow, and blue, contrasting with her dark skin. Her hair was done up in a series of small spiral buns. All let out, it would go down past her waist. With her free arm she held a stack of books: a fresh notebook, an English-Imperial dictionary, the Guided Meditations of the Empress, the Foundation Standard Operations Handbook, a map of Site-19, a folder with her department briefings, a book from home.
She looked to her right, and then to her left. There was nobody there. She looked at the clock on the wall, converting the time in her head. The day-night cycles here, along with the jet-lag, had made the last two days a complete blur, but she was beginning to bounce back.
Six-and one-half hours from the cycle origin, that's equivalent to…
Was she too early? Would they think badly of her for it? Maybe she should go back to the dormitory and…
No, no, that wouldn't do. Had to show proper work ethic. Show up bright and early, make a good impression. Couldn't be seen as a burden.
She swiped the card again. Nothing happened, again. Look right, look left, still no one. The hallway was bare, hauntingly lonely. None of the portraits or statues or tapestries of empresses and sundry figures past and their accomplishments.
Seeing no better option, Alai knocked, as loud as she could with one hand. This persisted for some time, with the occasional “Hello?” thrown in for good measure.
She was just about to give up before the door slid open, revealing a sleepy-looking man of early middle-age. Brown hair, light skin, rather tall, bags under his eyes, broad, boxy build, a bit of a gut and a general look of dishevelment.
“You the one from Antarctica?” He said, his voice tinged with tiredness.
Alai nodded, smiling. There was that word again, their name for the Empire.
“Alai LoCaen sen'a LoCaen Jaie, journeyman-scholar of the fifth school, Imperial Institute of Paranormal and Esoteric Study.” She spoke as clearly as she could, trying to minimize her accent, use Northworld inflections. It didn't help much. Her accent spread across her words like blackbutter on bread.
“Card wasn't working?”
“No, it wasn't letting me in.”
“You put it in upside down or something?”
Alai looked at the card. She didn't think that she had…oh, there it was. A little black arrow next to the magnetic strip, pointing the way it should have been swiped.
Heat flushed through her face. Of course. Of course she'd make a silly mistake like that on the first day.
“Come on, might as well show you around.” The man yawned. “You one of those crazy gung-ho morning people?”
“I don't think so. It's all very strange, the timing of everything.”
“Guess it would be for you. Name's Ed, by the way.”
Ed. No family name? Or was he withholding it? Low-caste? His appearance was slovenly, so that was a possibility or…no, couldn't keep thinking in Imperial terms.
Alai followed Ed through a set of monolithic plastic frames with no doors. Some sort of security system?
“You're a few hours early for the morning shift, so I guess I can give you the tour.” Ed lazily swung a hand out across the expanse of the room. “Welcome to the library.”
It was both reassuringly familiar and uncomfortably different. Plain grey carpet on the floor, no ornamentation or design. Rows and rows of bookshelves, metal instead of wood. Kiosks for computers far smaller than she was used to, tables and chairs scattered throughout. The same long, pale lights instead of hanging paper lamps. The overall lack of decoration gave it that same sort of cold, empty, alien feel. There was no one else there.
“Main desk is up here on level one, and then you've got level two below us, and then three and four and all the way down to six. Levels four through six are anomalous materials: you won't be down there. You just stick around here and get books when people need help getting books, do your own research, whatever. Your shift doesn't start for another hour and a half so look around, I guess.” He yawned again. “I'll be over there, wake me up if you need me. Try not to need me.”
Without another glance in her direction, he trundled over to the main desk and sat in the chair, leaning back with his feet on the desk.
Alai stood there for a moment,
She walked over to the desk.
“Um, excuse me, but what am I supposed to do?”
Ed opened one eye.
“You read the paperwork? Until Dr. Quail gets here for the day shift, you can do whatever the hell you want. I'm not your boss.”
“Oh. Okay. If you could show me to…”
Ed grunted, in that universal ‘I am trying to sleep do not disturb the grump' way. No getting anything from him, then.
Alai hesitantly wandered over to one of the desks and set her books down. The stillness was all-encompassing, muffling even her own heartbeat. Ed's behavior puzzled her, threw everything off balance. She wasn't sure if he was a superior, or a co-worker, and his total lack of interest, in her home, in the exchange program was bizarre.
Couldn't dwell on it now. He wasn't going to help, so she'd have to make her own. Alai took her dictionary from her pile and stepped into the shelves.
—
Her pile became significantly higher when she had returned. The categories were easy enough to figure out: history here, sciences here, fiction here, biographies here, and so on. Figuring out the subjects of books had been somewhat difficult, and had required a good deal of flipping through the dictionary, but she had managed. Encyclopedias first, world history and religions, and then focus in greater detail from there.
She set a half-dozen books open in front of her on the table, paging through each at whim. With the atlas studied the shapes of the continents that had been little more than unexplored blobs on Imperial maps. So many things to see. So many things to learn. The awkwardness at the door faded away with the time.
After some time, Alai became aware of the library door opening. She looked up from her book to see a thin man with a shaved head and a thick beard, wearing a bright yellow shirt with a floral pattern. His gaze jumped directly to her, which seemed to set off some sort of spark in his eyes.
“Hello hello hello!” He strode over with big steps and a big smile. “Dr. Argus Quail, tibi servio.” He extended his hand, which Alai shook after a moment's pause. She put a good deal of strength and energy into it, to make up for her prior failures in the act. Quail laughed. “Strong handshake! I like that. You're Alai, correct? Am I pronouncing that right?”
“Yes.”
“Wonderful! Welcome, yes, welcome. You and I, we'll have to have lunch sometime soon. Need to compare literary traditions. I would do it today, but I'm afraid there's a faculty meeting and if I skip out on another one of those the Directors' Committee will have my knickers. Now I would love to show you around myself, but I can't stay for long, have things to do, books to sort and all. Edward!” He called over to the main desk. “Edward, show our guest around!” He turned back to Alai. “Once again, I am very sorry I cannot show you around personally, my dear, but Edward is a good man, he knows the ropes.”
Alai wasn't sure what ropes had to do with anything, or that Quail was a very observant man. She looked over to see Ed walking towards her: Quail had already disappeared.
“Hi, again.” Alai waved half-heartedly. Ed yawned again.
“That man has the attention span of a fly in a bakery. Guess I can't get out of this, then. Come on…”
Over the next hour or so, Quail's faith in Ed was not entirely misplaced, Alai decided. He knew where everything was, answered every question, explained protocol succinctly, and did not appear incredibly impatient. He still didn't make a single comment about the fact that she was from another world.
Soon enough, he had shown her what there was to show her, and they returned to the first level. There were more people in the library now, more librarians and researchers scurrying silently about. Ed gave a lazy goodbye, a yawn, and left.
Alai went back to her stack of books, carrying a large one she had found during the tour. An atlas. The perfect place to begin her studies. She sat down and opened it up, slowly parsing the blocky text they favored. A few pages in, she saw a two-page spread of the Empire, covered in ice. Alai tapped it with her finger, placing Rootrel and the other major cities. Her finger lingered on where Kemdn should have been. Where her home should have been.
The loneliness crept up slowly for a few trickling moments before crashing down on her in its full, hollow force, taking her enthusiasm and drowning it. She was alone. Barely more than a girl, alone in a world not her own, where things were cold and unadorned. This was her home now, but there was nothing homely about the place. Her friends, her family, her masters and teachers, even her Empress, all far, far away. She wouldn't see any of them or speak to any of them for a long time. Quail was kind, for all she had interacted with him, and so were many of the other staff, but…were they just putting on false smiles, enduring or pitying the stupid, silly girl who stumbled into their lives and talked too fast and got over-excited about the littlest things?
She didn't even belong in the exchange group. She wasn't even supposed to be here, it was only that her aunt had fallen ill at the last minute and so she was sent instead. She couldn't face the others, couldn't talk to them: two were so high above her station that there was no way she could approach them, she had no idea how to speak with the Black Court, and she had yet to really speak to the artists. Shifting Snow…she had met him once before, at a funeral. Pleasant enough, but he was a cousin of another family branch, too far away to be real kin.
She bit her lip. No. No. She was going to do this. She did belong. The Empress's hand didn't move without reason. She was going to do this and when she went home when her studies here were done she would step off that train with smiles and stories and be known as the girl who went North and learned everything there was to know and she would see her mother and father and sisters there at the station waiting for her.
She rubbed her eyes on her sleeve. Don't think about home, think about here. Think about now.
She turned the page, and began to read about Asia.

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There was an airplane cruising over the Atlantic Ocean. For all intents and purposes, this airplane did not exist, though that fact is neither here nor there and is generally irrelevant to the point at hand. That point, though it is undecided as to whether it is at the right or left hand at this time, is the people on the plane, which is a far more important subject than the plane itself.
These people consisted of two groups, both very distinct. One group consisted of rather plain-looking people in button-down shirts and ties, blouses and skirts, or Kevlar vests. The other group consisted of several people with too many arms, two walking carpets, and all of them were wearing clothing that looked like the Catholic Church and the Ming Dynasty got drunk and decided “Hey, let's try this parenting thing, it can't be that hard”.
They are the focus. The plane will eventually be scrapped in 2024 due to unfortunate and classified circumstances, but once again, we are not talking about the plane.
The Adviser
Wisdom, Honor, Dignity. Those were the words of House Surten, passed down the ancient line since the dawn of the First Empire.
Sakarn Var Surten looked at his traveling companions, and found precious little of the three. The interior of the small aircraft they were assigned would have been small and uncomfortable for someone of his standing even if he didn't have to share it with this miserable lot of invalids, buffoons and castouts, and the entire affair was beginning to make him quite cross.
“Snow! Where are you, boy?”
“I am here, Lordship.”
Sakarn nearly jumped out of his seat, but managed to hide his surprise with his usual courtier's skill. Shifting Snow had a habit of appearing behind him silently and startling him, and Sakarn suspected the accursed servant was enjoying it.
“I do wish you would stop doing that, summerling.”
“I apologize, Lordship.”
“Nevermind your apologies, just get me a drink. I am utterly parched, and these northerners clearly know nothing of proper dining etiquette.“
“As you wish, Lordship.”
As the boy slowly wandered towards the drink tray, Sakarn reflected on how terribly difficult it was to find decent help and companionship. When he was the Grand Adviser in court, sitting on his seal-tusk chair at the Empress' side, things were different. Oh, what wonders he had seen at the Argent Hall, as he drank nectar from crystal goblets and listened to the music of the heavens. He promised himself he would hear it again. He would bring honor to the Empress, and regain his own. He would make her forget his… indiscretion.
“Your drink, Lordship. I apologize for the Styrofoam cup, but Trighit had apparently appropriated all of the glassware for some experiment. Should I ask him for one?”
“You'll ask for nothing. I won't have anything to do with that Black Court simpleton. The drink, boy.”
“Yes, Lordship.”
The boy handed him the plain Styrofoam cup, which was filled with some kind of foul, mud colored beverage.
“What… what is that?”
“I believe it is called coffee, Lordship. It is made from a bean.”
“They would have a Mender drink beans!? By my honor, this is a sordid state of affairs indeed. I hope they at least served the Superior something appropriate of her standing? Surely, she would never accept such a treatment!"
“She seems to be enjoying the drink, Lordship. She recommends you add sugar to it.”
Sakarn sighed. It was difficult to look up to your betters when they worked so hard at degrading themselves.
"Yes, of course she does."
From drinking nectar with the Empress, to drinking beans with northerners, Black Court upstarts and provincial exiles. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
The Scholar
“Can you show me where you are from?” Alai LoCaen thrust a map of the world at the man, beaming with excitement.
“Um…Right…here. Dead center of Indiana.” He pointed to the blob that served as North America on the map, roughly where the Midwest should have been. Alai looked at his finger with a wide-eyed stare of amazement.
“Amazing! Byr Lasell's exploration of that region in 2-1023 claimed the area was completely uninhabitable! Tell me, what is the primary export of your region?”
“Corn.”
“Please explain: I do not know what corn is.”
“Well, it's a vegetable, ‘s got a really tall stalk with these…we call them ears, but they don't look like them…these big cob-things sticking out of it, and those have kernels on them, and you eat those.”
“Excellent, excellent, wonderful.” Alai scribbled a note down in her logbook: Corn – tall with ears: eat kernels. “Now then, what is your mother's profession and caste?”
“She's a pharmacist, uh…works with medicine.”
“And you are a soldier? Did you choose your father's caste? Or is it a woman's union?”
“Don't really have castes…”
“Oh, right, right, I'm sorry, very sorry.” All of this was so exciting, so wonderfully strange, she could barely contain herself. The plane was strange, the food was strange, the inhabitants strange: Pale-skinned, like one minor caste she had seen in The Imperial Naturalist. No castes, multiple nations, esoteric secrecy. And all of this after only a few hours on the other side of the portal. “In that case, could you please explain the raising of children, their education, and how professions are determined?”
“Erm…”
“No, wait, food. Tell me about food.”
The Servant
"So you cover the swine-flesh tube with corn? Fascinating!"
"Err, I suppose that's one way to put it…"
Shifting Snow had to admire his cousin's ability to extract information, and out of a trained agent, no less. He never would have imagined wide-eyed enthusiasm could be so effective. Alai could have been a useful agent for the Frost, had she been born with a more useful disposition. We each had our talents, he supposed.
"Snow, this beverage is cold. Fetch me another."
Instinctively, Snow entered Rapid Assessment. The fifteen years he has spent since giving up his name to become a member of the Frost, the Empress personal information gathering force, had made it a second nature to him.
Objective: acquire drink
Operator: Sakarn Var Surten, former Grand Adviser and insufferable twit
Possible methods of completion: acquire individually, request assistance from aircrew
Additional opportunities: poison Grand Adviser (inadvisable, may cause the loss of a critical resource re mission: acquire covert information, personal satisfaction deemed a low priority)
Expected results: momentary termination of complaints, cover maintained.
Verdict: comply
"Yes, Lordship."
"And a biscuit of some sorts. I can't imagine they have anything worthwhile on this flying bathtub, but we must endure."
Objective: painful liquidation of Sakarn Var Surten, insufferable twit
Operator: Self
Possible methods of completion: strangulation, use of concealed weapon (blade), excessive physical force (hand to hand)
Additional opportunities: none
Expected results: failure in primary mission (acquire covert information), expulsion, eventual death, immense sense of self-satisfaction
Verdict: postpone verdict until completion of primary mission
"Yes, Lordship."
The Scientist
Trighit sat hunched over in his seat, studying the tiny creatures scurrying over the assorted dishes he had placed on the tray in front of him. As they ran across, the plates and cups changed colors constantly, creating a sea of fluctuating rainbow. He chuckled as he wrote down the results in his notebook.
"To think they almost didn't let me take them aboard," he murmured.
His gaze shifted to the passing flight attendant, who glared at him.
"Of course, it helped that they didn't exactly know about them I suppose."
He shuddered, thinking of all the specimens in the lower cabin, alone and unprotected. It just tore him up when they took away the flasgows.
"Bah, 'danger to passengers.' What hogwash!"
He shook himself back to reality. This was no way to begin the journey! There were going to be dozens of subjects to study at the destination. Trighit refocused on the creatures in front of him as waves of color broke through the formerly transparent glass.
Best of all, he wouldn't be completely surrounded by the pompous upper castes, with their "Look at that cute Courtail, aww, look, he thinks he's smart!". Sure, he'd have to put up with Sakarn's belittling comments and arrogant attitude, but at least he wasn't the only one this time.
He grinned to himself, glancing in his superior's direction. He was quite out of his element here, wasn't he?
"Uhhh, Trighit? They're, um… doing a thing."
He turned to look back at his compatriot in the seat next to him.
"What?" he asked curiously.
Pokum pointed a fat finger at the tray in front of Trighit. The creatures had begun devouring the various glassware, as well as noticeably increasing in size. Trighit gasped in delight as he pulled out his notebook and ferociously jotted down notes and speculations about this change in behavior.
As the plane sped on, Trighit became more and more lost in his notes and fantasies about what creatures were waiting for him at the end of the ride.
The Assistant
Trighit was muttering again. He always muttered when he was doing science, or whatever he called it. In his opinion, what Trighit did always took all of the fun out of anything. It wasn't enough that flaquets made colors on glass, apparently. It needed analstisis, or something. Whatever it was, it was exceedingly boring. Pokum sighed, turned his gaze towards the window, and asked himself the same question he pondered over day after day.
Why do I do it?
Of course, he already knew the answer. Or answers, rather, as there were many of them, though none felt quite… complete. It might have been because deep down, he really did think all this science was cool. Or at least the things the animals did were cool. The note taking and repetitiveness could never be interesting to him.
Maybe it was because he had nothing better to do. Everyone else back at home was pretty depressing, with the most interesting conversations consisting of who had been harassed the worst that day, or how long people thought it would take for the Empress to actually do something to help them. At least Trighit was energetic and somewhat fun to be around.
But the answer that nearly always came up in his mind with finality was that he cared about the bugger. Trighit always had a… well, a bad reputation, to say the least. No one respected him and, in Pokum's opinion, no one ever would. None of the Black Court could understand him, and all of the upper castes laughed at him for trying to reach outside of his realm. Pokum was the only one that actively supported him.
Well, as active as one can be while trying not to be seen with him in public.
A loud crunching noise drew Pokum's attention back to the tray in front of Trighit's seat. The creatures had begun eating the dishes, and Trighit looked lost in thought, with closed eyes and whispers aimed at the ceiling. He poked his friend.
"Uhhh, Trighit? They're, um… doing a thing."
The scientist snapped back to attention, looking intensely at Pokum.
"What?"
In response, he quickly pointed at the flaquets. Trighit squealed and rapidly began scribbling in his notebook again. Pokum sighed again. Any sliver of hope that the trip might make his friend more normal, or at least go smoothly was shattered when he tried to bring a dozen animals on the plane with them, then argued with the employee for an hour. They only managed to pry him away from the cages when someone brought Trighit some sort of book full of weird Earth animals. Pokum himself had only stopped the constant exclamations and speculations about the illustrated creatures when he pulled out the specimens he had snuck aboard in his coat for when he was sick of Trighit yelling in his ear.
He never had high hopes for the researcher's capacity for containing his excitement, but he at least dreamed it could last more than ten minutes. He groaned as he reclined in his seat and closed his eyes. It was gonna be a long trip.
The Artists
Tyhjä shifted idly on his seat, throwing shadows onto the surrounding walls. He longed to be out of this pressurized tube, longed to see the sky again. Would there be more flying things where they landed, he wondered. Birds, perhaps. He liked birds. He glanced at his sister, seated across from him. “What do you hear, sister?”
Clear Evening glanced up from her notebook scribblings, startled. “Brother?”
“You tilt your head slightly when you're listening,” Tyhjä stated simply.
Clear Evening blinked. She never realized this about herself, but then her brother knew her well, knew her mannerisms well. While she needed to write down her observations of the world, he simply remembered them.
“The sound of the plane, I suppose.” She looked back at her notebook. The exterior was identical to that of her brother's notebook, the interior completely different. Her words were neatly and orderly arranged, sometimes verses were grouped in the corners—Tyhjä's drawings were scattered all over the pages, without regard for time or place. How different they were, indeed.
Tyhjä sighed as he watched his sister drift back into her writing. He missed home. He really didn't have much business being here, he really didn't feel too comfortable in the presence of that Mender, and especially that Watcher. But his sister was here, and truth be told, he didn't mind overmuch being able to see new things to sketch. Tyhjä looked at the notebook on his lap. Opening it, he flipped through his drawings, letting the well-worn feel of the pages comfort him somewhat.
A series of ice crystals growing, some crystalline, some jagged. A diagram of his hand. A distant landscape. A crystal vase. A rough sketch of the outside of the plane he and his sister now sat on.
Tyhjä looked out the window. Gold-rimmed clouds in shapes he'd rarely seen blanketed the sky around the plane, and though he still longed for home, he could not help but marvel at them.
The Highest
Lucrezen Lhivaen Battackan Chlolassouvin sat with one set of hands folded in her lap, the second folded across her chest, and the last holding a Styrofoam cup filled with coffee, tiny in her slender, oversized fingers. A strange beverage, though that went without saying: everything was strange now, and that itself was strange. Lucrezen was not used to strange.
It was rather refreshing.
The plane for example. Sparse, simple, utilitarian, pedestrian. Nothing like the airships Lucrezen was familiar with, with their delicately sculpted interiors and illuminated scrollwork declaring the majesty of empresses past. Air travel was all about spectacle: you had conquered gravity. Trains were for actually getting somewhere fast.
She observed the others around her. Dregs of the Institute, each and every one of them: the unwanted, unliked, and unneeded. Did they realize it? Some, probably. The Black Courtsman scientist, the Mender, they knew, though she was sure the latter would refuse to admit it. The servant, possibly, along with the poet and artist. The assistant, no. The girl, not at all. They kept their distance from her, trying not to look, a lifetime of conditioning fighting against the novelty of a Watcher in the same room as them.
Lucrezen sipped her coffee, and thought of the last time things had been strange, when she had stepped off that train with the wind whipping dust in her face and the townsfolk staring with gaping jaws. This was another grand adventure. She rather liked that.
—
We, the Throne of Her Royal and Illuminated Highness, The Lady of Lands, Queen of Queens, Empress Utmai Cjen, Sixth of Her Name and Fourteenth of Her Line, do hereby approve the exchange of scholars between the Imperial Institute of Paranormal and Esoteric Study and the Foundation, so as to foster the sharing of knowledge and greater companionship between the Realm of the Empire and the Lands of the Uncharted North. So We approve the articles proposed and attached, and deliver Our blessing upon this venture.
We seal this in the Imperial Name, this Tenth of Radeyt, in this Year Four-Hundred and Eighty-Seven of the Third Imperial Age.

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It began with a word. Eventually it would swell to become something greater. It would envelop reality and become the heart of all universes. It would join world to world and unite people in its halls. But it began with a word, and a man.
The word was carved into a rock. The man stood above it and, in the bottom of his mind, felt something stir. He did not know that he had just changed the course of all worlds, but he could feel something was different. The world had become a bit more orderly.
He began to carve more words. The rocks surrounding him became a dictionary. Soon, the man was surrounded by language. The words stretched for miles in all directions, and he was still not satisfied. He began to look for more things to carve. He wrote words into the sand at his feet. He inscribed them on trees and in fields. All thought him mad. To them he was a crazed man drawing symbols with no meaning everywhere he went. And he was. But he was also something more.
Others began to carve. They followed his patterns, observed his technique, and began to create an alphabet for themselves. Soon there was not a spot in the world untouched by the wordsmiths. One had the idea to join two words together, and a phrase was formed. Sentences followed, paragraphs next, and pages and stories.
But all works were temporary. Rocks were eroded by wind and rain, sand polished flat by ocean tides, and wood was burned to ash. The followers despaired to see their work destroyed, but the man kept writing, so they kept writing. Stories lengthened until they became beasts eating away at entire mountainsides. Still the man was not satisfied. While his disciples created epics and poems, he continued to carve one word at a time. He traveled, never stopping except to lean down and scratch the earth. His followers, if they could be called that anymore, saw this as folly. They had all the words they needed to create beautiful prose. They could bring a man to his knees with a sentence. What need had they for new words?
By now, they had wrought the earth bare. There were no more forests or mountains or beaches. There was only a dry, stone page. Men spent years carving into miles of rock their masterpiece. When finished they would erase their work and begin anew. Each strove to top the other, to master their literary skills. All were devoted to the words. Only one, however, was devoted to the Word.
One hundred and thirty years after the man etched the first rock, he stopped, laid his tools at his feet, laid down, and died. No one noticed. He had long ago left their thoughts. Those who remembered him did so as a tittering fool stuck in the past. No one appreciated his true genius.
As his final act, he had made a carving in the stone. Like the rest, it was only one symbol. Three lines, four curves. And yet it was the most powerful of them all.
The ground around it began to crack. It expanded and pushed out, swallowing great swathes of earth, the stories contained on them, the storytellers. Rock gave way to void. The skies burned black and descended to feast. Millions died by fire and fear and hate, and their prose died with them. And when all was finished, when the skies rose back up to their rightful place and the earth calmed itself, the world had become a word. The greatest word, one that would ring out through all of creation. It had become the Library.


Good morning, world.
I open my eyes to the sight of the sun streaming in through my window. I smile. There's nothing quite like waking up to the sun warming your face. Especially after having not seen it for so long.
I lay in bed, basking in the glow, revelling in the softness of my sheets, thanking Him that I am alive to feel and see and love. I look around at my modest room. A bed, a table, a chair, and a desk. I haven't needed much else. Life is so simple if you know how to live it.
Still smiling, I roll out of bed and head to the window. Throwing open the curtains, I gaze out upon the land. Green now, the lawn looks beautiful. I see trees beginning to sprout across the street. There's a sight I haven't seen in almost 5 months. They look so beautiful, so strong. Trees, like man, spread across the landscape, but instead of corrupting, they only beautify. I nod in respect to them before I turn around to get dressed.
Appropriately attired, I make my way into the kitchen and look for something to eat. Opening a cabinet, I find an unopened can of spam. As I slice the spam, I glance behind me. No sign of anyone. Smiling again, I set aside the knife to wash in the stream later. I turn on the stove out of instinct, somehow still thinking that the igniter will work. I shrug, remembering that the damn thing hasn't worked in months, and grab the nearby book of matches. I strike one and light the burner, careful to cook on a low heat. I fry up the spam, my mouth watering all the while. Good food is so hard to come by these days.
I sit at my table, facing the window to look out on the world. I like it here, I think as I chew on the spam, it's quiet. A movement near the trees catches my eye and I reach to my hip, before remembering and smiling. I decide to go for a walk today.
I open the door into the sunlight and take a deep breath in. I cringe. Even after all this time, I can still smell it. Ignoring the smoke, I stroll down my road, alert, but comfortable. Looking around, I marvel again at the tranquility that surrounds me. It doesn't seem like that long ago that-
Shaking my head, I continue my walk. I feel strong today. It's amazing what carrying around an extra ten pounds can do. Chuckling at the thought, I recall the old women who used to carry five pound weights around while they power-walked in glaring neon colors. Now, I understand, I think with a laugh.
The day nearing its end, I turn around and take the short way home. I hate the short way, but I don't have much of a choice. Daylight is dwindling. Stepping around rusted out cars and climbing over broken fences, I make my way to my front door just as the sun dips below the horizon. I look over to the east and the glow confirms my suspicions.
New York City is still burning.
As I latch the deadbolt and set down my rifle, I hear it scream. With the humor that only the condemned can know, I chuckle and think that the deadbolt wouldn't do a damn thing.
I'll sleep with my head under the pillow tonight.
Goodnight, world.


The sign at the top of the store should have read “Jive Kat's Funky Disco Beats”, but four of the letters had fallen off to make it “Jiv at's Fun y Disco Bats”. The tinted windows had been broken and replaced half a dozen times, and were taped over with posters. The sidewalk had become a breeding ground for broken glass and cigarette butts. Against the wall was a mud encrusted man sleeping under a torn jacket.
A small black car pulled up. Out stepped a scrawny, blond haired man and a dark-skinned woman smoking a cigarette, both dressed in suits. The woman took one last drag before flicking the cigarette into the ever-growing pile of sidewalk trash. She rapped at the door, stepped back, and waited. The door swung open. Standing in the frame was a sweaty, rotund man, about six feet tall, with black hair and dark circles under his eyes. A nametag on his left breast read “John”.
“You looking for something?” he said.
The dark-skinned woman pulled a leather wallet from her jacket and opened it. “My name's Sabrina Marx,” she said, and jabbed a thumb back at her partner. “That's Isaac. We're from the FBI, Unusual Incidents Unit.”
“Goodbye,” John said, and began to shut the door. Sabrina's hand whipped forward and caught it.
“Sir, five minutes of your time is all we need.”
He scowled. “We're closed. Come back later.”
“Now would really be the best time sir.”
The scowl intensified. “Then I guess you'll have to make do with second best.” He shoved his shoulder against the door, but it didn't budge.
Sabrina sighed. “We're willing to pay you. One hundred dollars, just to look at the shop for ten minutes and ask you some questions.”
He bit his lower lip. “A hundred fifty dollars.”
“A hundred twenty-five.”
The door swung open. John stepped out of the way. “Ten minutes, then you're out of here.”
Sabrina nodded and stepped inside. Isaac followed and gave an appreciative whistle. “Damn, not bad at all,” he said. “I was expecting it to be a dump.” John shot him an evil look.
The store was much larger than the front indicated, stretching back almost 50 feet. Multi-colored aisles of records, CDs, DVDs, and T-Shirts ran to the back. The sterile white walls were covered in band posters. Asleep behind a counter by the door was a thin, young black man dressed in torn jeans and a U2 t-shirt. John gave him a hard smack as he passed. “Mike, if I catch you napping again, you're fired.” Mike saluted, then sunk back into his chair and went to sleep. John leaned against the counter and said, “Okay, so what are you doing in my store?”
Isaac nodded to Sabrina and walked off into the aisles. Sabrina pulled a notebook from her jacket and flipped it open. “If I'm not mistaken, a woman named Miranda Dole used to work here?”
He nodded. “She quit a few weeks ago, yeah.”
“So you know why we're here?”
As he spoke he took a novelty band pen from the counter and spun it in his fingers. “Miranda said that the records were talking to her, and for some reason beyond my mortal understanding the FBI feels that's a claim worth investigating. Which, in my opinion, is a spectacular example of what's wrong with the government today.”
Sabrina wrote something in her notebook. “So you do not believe that the records were talking?”
“No, I don't believe the records were fucking talking, because I don't believe that records can fucking talk.”
“I see,” she said. She tapped Mike on the shoulder, and he opened one eye. “Do you believe the records were talking sir?”
He shrugged. “Dunno.”
“I see.” She turned back to John. “Can you elaborate on what she said?”
“If it'll make you feel better. So, this started about four weeks ago. Miranda had been working here for about three weeks, and doing a pretty nice job. Good with the customers, remembered her shit, didn't complain, all of that. Then, out of nowhere, she starts getting real nervous during working hours. Like, she jumped when you tried to talk to her, and she deliberately avoids certain parts of the store. Tell her to put something in the rock section, and instead of going through hip-hop she'll walk around through classical, that sort of shit. I'm a bit worried y'know, thinking maybe something bad happened in her personal life that's throwing her off. I pull her out after a few days, ask her what's going on, tell her I'm here to help if she needs something. She just shuts down. Refuses to talk, gets real cold looking, and walks out without saying anything. Now I'm getting really worried, obviously.
"The next day I pull her aside again. Tell her, 'look, I'm your boss. I need to know if something's wrong with you that could be affecting your job performance'. This time, she starts crying and sobbing. Starts talking about how some of the records are talking to her. As you might imagine, this was not what I was expecting to hear. I have no idea what to say. Hell, I'm fucking stunned. How the hell was I supposed to react right? Well she doesn't like that. Starts screaming about how she knew I wouldn't believe her, how she wished I never had made her talk about this, how she knows she sounds fucking crazy. Then she just runs out, and I haven't seen her since.” He set the pen on the counter and folded his arms. “That's everything.”
“Hm,” said Sabrina. “I see.”
“I'm sure you do.”
“Sabrina!” called Isaac from one of the aisles. “Look at this.”
Sabrina smiled. “Excuse me for a moment.” She walked through the aisles to Isaac. He was holding a faded copy of 36 Chambers. “Did you find something?”
He nodded. “Our girl Miranda was right.” He flicked the album with his middle finger. Nothing happened. Sabrina raised an eyebrow.
“Impressive.”
“Wait wait, this worked the first time.” He flicked the record harder. Again, nothing happened. He grasped the record in both hands and said, “I'm going to break you now.” Gently he began to bend the record inwards.
“Okay, okay! Fuck!” came a voice from the record. “What do you want?”
Isaac grinned. “Hello Mr. Thirty-Six Chambers. Nice of you to say hi to my lady-friend.” Sabrina rolled her eyes.
“My name's not Mr. Thirty-Six Chambers, you goddamn mouth-breathing plebian. It's Cornwallace,” said the record.
“Nice to meet you Mr. Cornwallace,” said Sabrina. She scanned her notebook. “Are you the only other talking record in this store, or am I correct in thinking copies of Meantime and Broken are also possessed?”
“I ain't talking,” said Cornwallace. Isaac started to bend it again. “Alright, shit! Crazy fucking humans. Yeah, they can talk. We ain't possessed though.”
“What are you?
The record's voice took an air of superiority. “We're Remorians of course.”
“That's ten minutes!” John called. “Get out of my store.”
Isaac flicked the record again. “You'll shut up if you know what's good for you.” To John he said “One minute! We need to get some records.” He handed Cornwallace to Sabrina and darted off into the metal section. Sabrina walked back to a sour looking John.
“Get everything you needed?” he sneered.
“Yes,” said Sabrina. Isaac arrived holding the two other records.
“How much will these be?” he asked.
John walked to the register. “Twenty dollars thirty three cents.” He grinned. “Plus one hundred twenty-five.”
Sabrina handed him the money, and the two agents walked out. Isaac grinned. “Score one for the UIU.” He extended a fist. Sabrina sighed, then tapped it with hers.
“If I were you,” said a voice from behind them, “I'd hold off on counting my chickens for a little bit.” The two of them turned. The homeless man had stood up. He dusted off his shoulders and extended a hand. “I'd like the records please.”
“Who the hell are you?” said Isaac. He tucked the records safely under his arms.
“Who do you think I am?” said the man. “I'm with the Coalition. This is our operation. Give us the records.”
“Screw you man,” said Isaac. “We spent money on these. We did all the work.”
“You interfered with Coalition business,” he said. He took five 100 dollar bills out of his jacket and tossed them to Isaac. “Here. Remuneration. Take it and run along back to your little clubhouse.”
Isaac took a step forward. “I'm sorry?”
“Isaac,” said Sabrina. She put a hand on his shoulder. “Give him the records.”
Isaac spat and shoved the records against the man. One of them gave a muffled “Ow!”
The man smiled, gave a mock wave, and walked away humming. Isaac roared and kicked a wall. “Fuck! This is bullshit, we had that! Joshua is right you know. I'm tired of just sitting by while they steal the limelight.”
“Isaac. Calm down,” said Sabrina. “You can't say you didn't expect this.”
“Yeah, but that's different from it actually happening! God!” He slammed open the car door. “Let's just go back.”
“That would probably be best.”


It came as a great shock to Doctor Martin the day the Blank Man appeared before him and offered to show him a world without the Foundation.
It would, of course, come as a shock to anyone. To be sitting in one's office during the middle of a fairly busy day, only to look up from your work and see the outline of a man standing in front of you. To see such a strange thing is simply outside the human experience, and to feel shocked by it is only natural. For Doctor Martin, however, his background with the SCP Foundation meant he had spent many years in exposure to such things. The shock should not have come to him at all.
Perhaps it was because he had never seen anything like the Blank Man before. After all, even with his extensive knowledge of the anomalous and macabre, Doctor Martin had only seen a small fraction of what the universe had to offer him. But even the multi-pronged vagabond from the twelfth-dimension had not fazed him the day it stole the heart of his secretary. So that could not be it.
Perhaps it was because this was his first time working in a site where objects capable of inducing such hallucinations were stored. Having never seen this particular sort of thing before could have caught him off guard. But he knew full well that the nearest object capable of such mind-altering effects was far enough away to not impact him in the slightest. So it was probably not that.
No, it was most likely because Doctor Martin simply did not expect it. In all his years with the Foundation, few normal people had dared enter his office while he busied himself with work. Fewer strange creatures at that. Doctor Martin was used to the solitude his working hours provided him. A sudden interruption, especially one of such a strange magnitude as this, had simply caught him off guard.
As Doctor Martin attempted to regain his senses, the Blank Man reiterated Its - His? Was it right to call something that looked somewhat like a man and spoke somewhat like a man, but was clearly not a man a He? - offer: It was capable of tearing open the fabric of reality, in such a fashion that would not harm the larger structure of it, and forming a portal to another universe. Another universe where the Foundation had never existed. It was capable of doing so, and would do so just for Doctor Martin. Moreover, It was quite willing to do so, somewhat eager, even.
Doctor Martin let his options run through his head. Logic dictated that he should call security and initiate a Site lockdown, in order to capture this thing and begin study of It. That was, of course, what any other sane, rational person would do when faced with a situation similar to this. His hand was already on the buzzer; all it would take was a simple muscle spasm to take this thing and lock It away for the rest of Its days.
But in the back of his head, Doctor Martin knew he could not. There was something about the Blank Man he could not place his finger upon. Something about It that suggested any attempt to contain it would result in Its vanishing, never to be seen nor heard from again. This would, of course, be perfectly ideal, as it meant the Foundation would never have to waste resources trying to study and understand this thing. And yet, the offer It made to Doctor Martin was so compelling, so strange and alien and potentially horrifying, that he just could not refuse.
And so, Doctor Martin raised his hand from the buzzer, looked straight into the Blank Man's nonexistent face, and stepped around his desk, nodding his head.
The Blank Man nodded too, and turned Its form about to face the wall behind it. Doctor Martin had long grown used to bland, washed-out colors and slightly cracked doorframe he faced on a daily basis, and still expected them to be there now. Imagine his surprise when his eyes were met with a dazzling array of colors not of this Earth, or indeed, of any Earth anywhere. The alien colors danced and flashed and sang, moving in dazzling, complex patterns no eye could hope to comprehend. To any well-worn traveler of the interstellar planes, such a sight is perfectly normal, and not worth much contemplation. To a man fresh out of his universe, the space between realities was both awe-inspiring and awful.
Before he could be completely lost in the dazzling array of color and spectacle, Doctor Martin felt a pressure on his wrist, and looked in what he assumed was the frontal direction. The outline of the Blank Man stood there, pulling him through the madness and into the darkness of a new world's night.
Doctor Martin did not know what he had expected to find in this new universe. The thought of what would have happened had the Foundation never come into being had played across his mind once every few years, but he had never seriously considered it a possibility. The SCP Foundation existing seemed as natural a fact as the sun rising in the east, or grass growing green. As he tried to shake off the effects of interstellar travel, Doctor Martin attempted to reason out what state humankind would have gotten to without the Foundation's guidance these last forty years.
He did not stray too far from the path he had expected to take. Of course, the initial appearance of the sculpture would not have brought about too much change. It would certainly have caused untold loss of life, but nothing that the world could not deal with. No, it was all the strange things that had come in its wake; all those cosmic horrors from beyond the veil of reality arriving in our simple little plane of existence. Those would be the things capable of destroying the world. Without the Foundation there, mankind would not have made it a year out of 173's first sighting.
Images of a blasted heath of a land came to Doctor Martin's mind; charred skeletal remains peppering the landscape, rotting husks of buildings toppling to the ground one by one, an unnatural stillness in the air. A true post-apocalyptic world.
What he saw, however, was something quite entirely different. Doctor Martin and the Blank Man stood on a grassy hill, overlooking a small settlement in what looked to be Norway, judging by the towering fjords to the east. Birdsong filled the air, wind swept playfully through the grass, and in the distance, Doctor Martin could hear small children at play. The sunlight and warmth on his face told him this was summertime.
But this couldn't be Norway. Norway would have been torn apart decades ago, leaving nothing but a few small islands sticking about the raging sea of magma. If the Foundation hadn't intervened…
Doctor Martin turned to the Blank Man and demanded to know what had happened to keep this place so orderly. Was the ritual simply nonexistent in this universe? Was there some other organization who intervened? Was this, perhaps, in the distant past, before the Foundation even existed?
The Blank Man shook Its head region, and responded: No, this is the modern day. The exact same hour of the exact same day of the exact same year Doctor Martin had just stepped out of. It was just a Norwegian settlement in a universe where the Foundation just did not exist. No other differences. Just a lack of the Foundation.
Then this must be a fluke, Doctor Martin realized. A small part of the world that managed to escape the widespread destruction, through what means he could not possibly fathom, but managed to escape it nonetheless. That must be it, right?
The world shifted, and Doctor Martin found himself and the Blank Man standing in the middle of Times Square, with rush hour traffic roaring all around them. Then they appeared in the London Underground, a busy crowd of commuters hustling to catch the 4:37 train. And again they shifted, this time showing up in Beijing.
Time after time they shifted across the world, how many times Doctor Martin was not sure of. But even though they remained in one spot for no more than a second or two, it was enough to show Doctor Martin a planet that had evidently survived without the shadowy gaze of the Foundation hovering over it. Somehow, someway, every tiny little detail was still there.
Not exactly, the Blank Man replied, standing as stock still as It had throughout the whole trip. Some things did change without the Foundation around. There were no young girls impregnated with horrors from beyond, no farmers massacred by a reptilian demon, no time when London was torn to pieces and rebuilt with a Glasgow smile running across the city. All those people who suffered and died at the hands of the monstrosities the Foundation contained simply went on living their lives untouched, as content or miserable as they would have been otherwise, until they either passed away or made it to the modern day.
Doctor Martin could not understand this. The Blank Man had quite clearly stated the only difference between this universe and his native one was the lack of the SCP Foundation. That was the basis for this whole trip, was it not? Could it be that the Blank Man had lied in order to achieve some higher, more sinister purpose?
The Blank Man let out the closest thing to a sigh It could muster, and looked directly into Doctor Martin's eyes. There had, perhaps, been some miscommunication, entirely on the Blank Man's part. It was true this universe lacked the existence of an SCP Foundation, there was no denying that fact. The lack of the Foundation, however, was more a catalyst for change than any sole, unique difference in these timelines. Without the Foundation… well, perhaps it was better to show Doctor Martin.
The pair shifted once again, to the inside of a small diner in the desert. It was a scene of understated carnage. Most of the people sitting within the booths or on stools had expressions of mild shock on their faces, while the waitress behind the counter had a look of utter terror on her face. Her mouth half open in a scream, her eyes clamped tightly shut. A few small patches of blood stained the ground and counter. Each and every head in the diner was either tilted or twisted in an unnatural way.
Doctor Martin, seeking a sight less stomach-upsetting than this, glanced at the calendar on the wall. Forty years in the past. He remembered this day.
The Blank Man, having spent Its time staring into the face of a gruff-looking man, shifted Itself and Doctor Martin once again. Stumbling slightly on the uneven ground beneath his feet, Doctor Martin looked up and found himself standing in the middle of a barren desert, the rim of a canyon a few kilometers ahead. Before he could comprehend any more than this, a vaguely human shaped blur tore straight past him, kicking up a cloud of rock and sand as it went by.
The Blank Man nodded once again. It could tell what Doctor Martin was thinking: He recognized this place, did he not? He could even remember the exact details of this day. A young man, starting fresh at an organization dedicated to containing hazardous materials, receiving word that something had slaughtered a diner full of people not six miles from where they were stationed. An indication that something had just rushed past their front door, its trail leading quite clearly back to the diner. A brief consideration by the higher-ups to just let it go, let someone else more capable of handling such a thing take care of matters. And then…
Doctor Martin remembered. He had been selected to go out and investigate what this thing was. They had encountered it less than a hundred meters away from the cliff in the distance. It had killed two men and severely injured him before taking off once again. They had lost a few good men, but gained invaluable knowledge of how the sculpture worked, and how to catch it. Two tries later, and the object was given the designation SCP-173, and locked up tight. And as time went on, that hazardous materials containment team had grown massively in scope, phasing out the hundred and seventy-two other materials and objects they had collected in favor of far stranger things. Forty years of growth, study, and protection. Forty years of securing, containing, and protecting. Forty years of this, Doctor Martin had seen, and it had all started just up ahead, with his small team's encounter with the original.
But for whatever reason, Doctor Martin and his team simply were not there.
Shifting once again, the pair stood upon the edge of the cliff. The blurred figure continued to rush towards them. Though no specific details could be made out of it, Doctor Martin could tell it intended to turn as soon as possible, just avoiding the cliff and continuing to speed along the edge. The figure started to do so, and indeed looked as if it would make it.
And then, there was a statue in place of the blur, skidding along the desert sand. Some small lizard from below or a bird up on high must have spotted it, however momentarily, freezing it into rock and paint. The statue tumbled over itself a few times before toppling over the rim and falling out of sight.
Peering over the edge, Doctor Martin dimly saw a shattered figure, dashed out across the rocks below. The world shifted, and the pair stood at the bottom of the cliff, next to the broken, scattered stones of what was once SCP-173. The wind was already blowing sand over the rocks; in a few years time, nobody would even know this horrid, nightmarish creature had ever existed.
This sort of thing had happened countless times before, the Blank Man observed, Its feet digging at the sand around the sculpture's head. Inexplicable deaths, unexplained phenomena, unexpected vanishings, horrid monsters with razor sharp teeth, all the things that keep men awake at night. All of them glitches in the reality of space-time, of course. Things either never meant to be, or just plain showing up in the wrong place at the wrong time. That statue was no different. Just appearing, lost and confused in the middle of the desert, and finding itself frozen in place whenever any living creature looked upon it. So it lashed out, killed a few people, and fled across the desert sands.
In Doctor Martin's universe, the natural thing for people to do in this sort of situation was respond. A reactive species, the human race. If something goes wrong or is out of the ordinary, they go at it until there's no reasonable explanation and just leave it at that, or find some way to bring it into their sphere of understanding. It is a bit of a confusing trait to have; after all, most other highly intelligent, reactive species eventually wind up sticking their noses somewhere they don't belong and getting them bit off. But that's just a simple digression.
The point is, in Doctor Martin's universe, a few people reacted to a simple, everyday mistake in the universe, and locked it up. In this universe, they decided it was somebody else's problem, and just let it slide, quite literally, off a cliff. That's the key difference here. The Blank Man did not know exactly why the universe responded in the way it did. Most likely because mankind had never reacted on such a large scale and managed to capture one of its mistakes. What does a universe normally do when such a thing happens within it? The Blank Man, much as It would like to say, simply could not say.
But whatever the normal reaction to such things was, the universe looked at such a strange event happening surrounding one of its glitches, and decided that mankind needed more of a challenge. It needed more things like this. So it started making more. Small objects with little quirks scattered here and there, people given fantastic, horrifying powers then and now, unfathomable monsters of unknowable terror plucked from their places every now and again, even an idea planted into some lunatic's head once in a while. The whole spectrum of things normally considered defects in a universe were now being saturated across one planet, just to give a few members of one little reactive species something to do.
In essence, in dedicating itself to the protection of mankind, the Foundation inadvertently created the things mankind needed protection from.
As Doctor Martin took this all in, he continued to stare into the spray-painted green eyes of the shattered sculpture. He had always looked at this thing as the root of all the world's troubles. The spark that started a raging forest fire of madness and death across the world, a fire the Foundation could never put out, only just barely contain. A simple little match in a dry wood causing so much trouble. But now? They hadn't been working to stamp out the fire by containing this thing; they'd been pouring gasoline on it.
And then the madness of the dancing colors overtook the wind and the sand and the broken statue. Barely even noticing the enticing wonders around him, Doctor Martin slowly climbed to his feet, and stood stock still next to the Blank Man as his office reformed around him.
The Blank Man thanked Doctor Martin for his time. It is not very often one of Its stature attempts to show someone like him the truth, and even rarer for the journey to be seen to its conclusion. So It thanked Doctor Martin for having gone through with the offer, and expressed a sincerest hope he had learned something of value from this little excursion. Then, without making a move, the Blank Man was gone, disturbing nothing and looking for all the world as if It had never been there at all.
Doctor Martin stood in the middle of his office, contemplating the bland, washed-out colors of his wall, and the slightly cracked wooden doorframe. There was much for him to think about. Many actions to be contemplated. He had things to do with the knowledge he had obtained, things he needed to do in order to make the world a better place. But first…
Doctor Martin opened his door, and stepped out.
None know what became of Dr. Harold Martin after that day. All security tapes show a disturbance of some nature in his office, scrambling the video feed throughout the site, and when they come back, all show him having vanished. Despite a lack of paperwork, amnestic requests or termination documents, the next day there was no evidence Doctor Martin had ever been associated with the SCP Foundation. Rumors persist that he was involved with several terrorist attacks by various Groups of Interest in the following weeks, but no solid evidence showing this or the contrary have shown up. Only one man knows of the Blank Man, and he has disappeared off the face of the Earth.
Perhaps Doctor Martin's encounter with the Blank Man, and his trip to an alternate universe weren't even real. He was, after all, getting on in his years, and was working at a site where several mind-altering objects were stored. Perhaps the Blank Man was real, and Its revelations about the nature of the universe were spot on. Maybe, just maybe, the Foundation could have averted all the death and destruction in the world if it had just sat back and done nothing.
But then, this is a tale dealing with alternate realities. And that's always the key word when it comes to these sort of tales, isn't it?
Maybe.


"What the hell do you mean there's been a breach?"
"Well, no SCPs have broken out, but… someone's made a video about us. Specifically, the comic books we keep finding."
"So some small-time comic nerd makes a video about us. Confiscate the comic, kill the vid and shoot him up with Class-A's."
"It's not going to be that easy, sir…"

Lewis Lovhaug (AKA Linkara): Hello, and welcome to Atop the 4th Wall, Where Bad Comics Burn. Today, we're talking about something kind of obscure, the comic "Tales of the Foundation Force Five".
(Stock music starts playing over images of Foundation Force Five comic panels and covers)
Linkara: This thing has only been around for about 20 years or so, but god damn did it reproduce quickly. This is like the tribbles of comic books. Published by Super Comics Publications, the Foundation Force Five focuses around five members of the fictional SCP Foundation, a global entity that "Secures, Contains, and Protects". Specifically, they Secure and Contain anomalous items they call "skips" and Protect humanity from their harmful effects. And the writing team gets really creative with the items that show up in the comic. How creative?
(video cuts back to Linkara speaking to the camera)
Linkara: There are almost two thousand skips that are known in the comic's universe. That's right, two thousand. The amount of effort it must take to come up with new items for every freakin' storyline is… I don't even know. Geez.

"All right, so who is this guy?"
"Lewis Lovhaug, sir. Professional comic book reviewer, works for That Guy With The Glasses dot Com…"
"Weren't they the bozos who reviewed Edison's damn movie?"
"Yes, sir."
"Shit."

Linkara: The Foundation Force Five was started during the speculator boom, and became very successful by not having one, not two, but at least four comics published in a single month, depending on the writing team. This was so that they could get storylines over with faster, and so far, there are over 700 issues. Just to make it clear… this comic, in less than 20 years, has produced as many issues as The Amazing Spider-Man has produced in FIFTY. That's over 35 freakin' issues a year, and Super Comics Publications still finds time to publish Monthlies like Wondertainment's Kiddy Book for Kids! That's epic.
Linkara: Sadly, the issue we're looking at today is decidedly less epic. Released as a special 100th issue about three years into the comic's run, this thing deals with… we'll you'll see.
(Linkara holds up Issue 100 of the Foundation Force Five, clearly displaying its cover)
Linkara: So let's dig into Tales of the Foundation Force Five #100 "Brother's Keeper", and see what happens when you combine Liefeldian proportions with writing so insane Frank Miller would have you committed.

"This dork has his own theme song? Kinda catchy. Also, who's Frank Miller?"
"Comic book writer. Did some Batman stuff that was really popular back in the '80s."
"Stuff my kids might like, do ya think? They love Batman."
"…you read The Dark Knight Returns and tell me, sir."

Linkara: The cover shows us a picture of Femme Fatale, AKA Dr. Rights, the only female member of the FF5. She's standing in the shadow of a 7-foot-tall overly-muscled beast, who is Able, or SCP-076-2. Yes, that's Able as in the Biblical Able. Now, the proportions on Able are acceptable; in previous issues, he's been shown to be really god-damn buff, and also really tall. The problem I have here is with Dr. Rights, who… well, just LOOK at it!

"He's right. A person's spine isn't supposed to bend that way."
"What do you mean? I think it looks kind of… oh, EW! It's like it's at a right angle!"
"And look at those breasts. Yeesh. No wonder her back's broken."
"Who the hell drew this?"
"According to the video, someone going by the name of 'Redd Actor'."
"Oh, and I suppose the writer is 'Dottie X. Ponge'?"
"…"
"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!"

Linkara: The story starts out at the bottom of the Atlantic ocean at Site "Blackbox". Yeah, quick note, here. For some reason, the dialog in these comics is treated like a government document, with liberal use of "redacted" and "data expunged" thrown around. One thing that's kinda funny, though; when characters swear, it says "expletive redacted". Makes the scenes with Comrade Gunkill hilarious.
Linkara: Anyway. Here at Site Blackbox, we meet Bodyjacker, AKA Dr. Jack Bright, in a female body this time around. Judging by the size of her legs, I think she's possessing Bayonetta. (picture of said character shows up in the corner of the screen) She and another scientist are looking in at SCP-076, the giant stone prison that contains Able.
Bodyjacker (voiced by Linkara in a falsetto): How's the containment holding?
Scientist: The new procedures suggested by your team are holding up quite well, sir-uh, ma'm, uh… sorry, but I don't know what to call you.
Bodyjacker: Jack will be fine. And we don't want Abel going out on a rampage. You know who to call if he breaks out again… right, soldier? (Bodyjacker shimmies up close to the scientist)
Linkara: And then a containment breach alarm sounds, with Able stepping out of his prison… and for some reason, the on-site nuke goes off, killing everyone on site, except for Able, who just floats to the surface.
Linkara: I would do a gag here where I drop the comic and say "well that was short, see you next week", but quite frankly, that's getting old. Besides, you can tell by the bar at the bottom of the video that this isn't over yet.

"Huh. This kid is pretty good with voices."
"Hush."

Linkara: After that explosion, we are shown Comrade Gunkill, also known as Agent Strelnikov, in his own personal armory with ChowderClef, or Dr. Alto Clef. Yes, I am serious. The first guy has the superpower of guns, and the guy with the awesome hat has the super power of guns that shoot chowder.
The 90's Kid: Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude! Comrade Gunkill is awesome! He has the coolest superpower of all - GUNS! And it was totally radical when ChowderClef tried to blow up a star with a chowder bomb! (Pulls out a bowl marked "clam chowder" and slurps at it.)
Linkara: Okay, I admit, that… that was pretty awesome. Also, what are you doing?
The 90's Kid: I thought that if I eat enough of this Chowder stuff, I'll become just like ChowderClef!
Linkara: Yeah, good luck with that.

"Wait… why was he two different people?"
"It's a gag he does. Don't ask."
"Okay then."

Chowderclef: Dammit, Fatale, we need Gunkill to do this! It takes a real man to face off against 076!
Linkara: I AM A MAN! (punches, and brings out an SCP-682 plushie when he pulls back his hand) …where the hell did this come from?
(The SCP-682 plushie "attacks" and attempts to eat Linkara, who shoots it with his "magic gun" while screaming)

"Two things: firstly, what was that?"
"Running gag he has. Kinda like the 'We were on break!' thing on Friends."
"Okay. Secondly: What. The. FUCK!? He has a plush 682?! Where'd he purchase THAT!"
"I think he made it himself. He does that with some of his props."
"Even so… Also, that gun isn't actually-"
"No, sir."
"Good."

Linkara: Bodyjacker, like an immortal troll, decides to pelt a freakin' Holy Hand Grenade at Able. No, seriously, that's what it's called. They got them, like, 50 issues ago.
Bodyjacker: Hey, you son of a Biblical [EXPLETIVE REDACTED]! Have a taste of this!
Linkara: The grenade blows up as Able catches it, and- JESUS! Look at all that blood! If any normal human did that, he'd be dead in a second! I get that this was during the 90's but still, Jesus.
Bodyjacker: Genesis don't! (a montage of clips play, including one from from Star Trek III: The Search for Spock, a Sega Genesis commercial, and a clip from the music video for Genesis' Land of Confusion)

"…well, that was random."

Linkara: Of course, Able's also immortal, and shrugs it off, producing a sword that's bigger than him. How big? Just pulling it out is enough to cut Jacker in half from across the room. Just… huh?! I think even Cloud would have a hard time carrying that without killing himself!

"This guy makes an awful lot of pop culture references, doesn't he?"
"He's an internet reviewer, what do you expect?"
Femme Fatale: What?
Linkara: What?

"What."
"What."

Linkara: Okay, so for those of you not paying attention, Able thinks that Femme Fatale is his mother, and apparently has quite an Oedipus complex, because a few panels later…
Chowderclef: Agatha, what the hell are you doing?
Femme Fatale: They don't call me a negotiations spectialist for nothing, Clef.
Linkara: And then… she makes out with 076. I'm not kidding, folks. She makes out with freakin' Able, an immortal, seven-foot-tall war god, to whom sex and sexuality are completely alien concepts. Continuity? What's that? Oh, also, they misspelled "specialist". (90's Kid Voice) Because poor literacy… is what happens when your book is written by Dottie X. Ponge.
Linkara: I'm sorry, folks, but I need to take a small break, here. We've just seen Able making out with a woman who he thinks is his mother. I need a long, cold shower.
(The video cuts to commercial)

"Odd time to have a break, almost 3/4ths of the way through…"
"I've seen enough. Get over to his house, shut down this site's server, use memetics to knock out people's memories of seeing this video, give the nerd Class-A's, and get the fucking comic."
"Watch it through to the end, at least…"
"Fine."

Linkara: And so our comic ends with SCP-073 killing his brother, and mourning over his corpse, but not before he says to Rights…Linkara: This comic sucks! As if it weren't bad enough that the artwork is horrid and overly gory in places, the writing can be nonsensical, like ABLE SURVIVING A NUKE and whole scene with him picking up Bodyjacker's amulet and it only affecting him temporarily is just stupid. Add in the theme of incest towards the end, and the whole comic makes me wanna gag.
Linkara: Don't get me wrong, people. This series can be very good; hell, towards the beginning, it had several great story arcs, and after this one, it had several more! My personal favorite is around Issue 76, where the team travels back in time and gets turned into sea slugs. But as for this one… well…
(An alarm rings off screen as Linkara looks around in confusion)

"What's… going on?"
"It's a skit he has at the end of his reviews. Entertaining, if a bit pointless and convoluted."
"Okay then… wait, is that guy in the Hulk Hogan costume supposed to be 076?"
"And the guy with the gorilla mask is Clef. Don't ask."
"Oh, hey, credits. Now can you send out a task force to Class-A the nerd?!"
"I did it 35 minutes ago."
"…"
"…"
"Fuck you."


Dear sir or madame,
It has come to our attention that you have taken some of our props, and while we understand why you felt it necessary, we politely request you return them. We were not intending for the performance to reach the level it did, and it can only be seen as the fault of the actors. Some people just have to be free spirits, and while that is commendable in the long run, it isn't the way you run a production.
Normally we'd let you keep them, but we feel they don't quite mesh with the performance we've presented thusfar. It isn't really proper to take a drama and throw a dash of realistic fiction into it, or vice versa. Performance is all about execution, and if we just threw properties at people willy nilly it wouldn't be very interesting. In terms you might understand, it's like performing an experiment with too many variables. The result just doesn't cut it.
In exchange for the return of our property, we're willing to offer you a personal gift: tickets to our next show, "A Symphony in Algae" about undersea life and the effect of a prop very similar to the one you've stumbled onto. There are only two seats left, which we could sell to one of those exhibitionist art groups, but we've decided that the return of our belongings is worth being deprived of new players on the field.
William Shakespeare once said "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages."
And you know what? He was right.
Sincerely,
Wehrner Gillespie
Red Actors Troupe