April 3rd, 1856:
My succour has arrived! For over a year now I have been in London, exercising my duties in the House of Lords to aid Mr. Palmerston's government in bringing about the conclusion of the war in the Crimea. Those who have read these pages are well aware, I am certain, that I do not relish government office; the endless meetings and floor sessions and meandering speeches by whips and cross-benchers and the Lords Spiritual could drive a man to madness, and represent nothing less than utter tedium to a man as afflicted by wanderlust as I. Still, with privilege comes responsibility, and when country and party call it is my duty to don my robe, cast my vote, and maintain the proud heritage of the house of Blackwood as defenders of the church and the state.
With the Russians acquiescing to the treaty that has been signed in Paris this past Sunday, the war has ended and so has the necessity of my sitting in Parliament. No sooner had I returned to my London estate after the final meeting when Deeds informed me a caller had visited in my absence. Dr. Hightower, the astronomer, has requested that I meet him two nights from now at Greenwich for a demonstration and the discussion of a most interesting proposition. I have not heard from Dr. Hightower since our trip to Mars in 1843; if the news he has in mind to share with me is as elucidating as it was in the days leading to that adventure, then this shall be a welcome change from the quiet desperation in which I have suffered this past year.
April 6th, 1856:
It has been many years, dear reader, since I was a man young enough to stay awake all night and feel no worse for it the following day. Of course, the nature of the occupation requires that an astronomer keep odd hours; and so it was half before midnight last night when I met Dr. Hightower at the Royal Greenwich Observatory. Dr. Hightower was most excited to see me; for a man who is typically most dour and sedate, concerning himself with the abstractions of physical science, he was uncharacteristically exuberant. He spoke to me of great discoveries and unique opportunities as he ushered me upstairs to the observing chamber, where the facility's great telescope laid bare the heavens to man's prying eye. For several years, Dr. Hightower informed me, he had been busily engaged in making refinements to the telescope that allowed it to compensate for the interfering effects of our atmosphere, allowing him to observe the heavenly bodies in levels of detail never before imagined. The doctor seated me before the great device and bade me to look into the eye-piece of the telescope, which he had delicately adjusted to expose his great discovery.
I beheld, amidst the blackness of space, a massive rock, one of the many asteroids that Mr. Piazzi and his associates had discovered between the orbits of Mars and Jupiter in recent years. But unlike the copper-plate dagguerotypes that had been published in the Times, this was no barren rock adrift in the void. Save for a few tiny blotches, the entirety of the oblong body was coated in a sea of verdant greenery, the unmistakable colour of the virgin jungle. I fancied I could even see the leaves of the canopy that enveloped the miniature world, and at its pole I espied what resembled a palm tree, truly gargantuan in size, towering above the foliage of the world. This was a most interesting discovery indeed; while the famous canals of Mars had proven to be mere illusions when I visited them (and its atmosphere, I found, most unpleasant to breathe), here was proof, plain to see, that God in His wisdom had not set living things on our celestial sphere alone, but that the Galaxy itself had been seeded with the germ of life.
Dr. Hightower had first discovered the asteroid, which he had named Victoria in honour of our dear Queen, five years ago during the mania following Mr. Le Verrier's discovery of the planet Neptune several years before. He had kept his discovery secret, he told me, for he had a plan to announce its existence in a manner as grandiose as no astronomer has ever done. For four years, at his estate in Wales, Dr. Hightower has employed a team of men constructing a rocket similar to the one proposed by Mr. De Bergerac two centuries ago, larger and sturdier than the one that carried us to Mars on our previous voyage. Last week, the final preparations had been made, and the rocket now stood, fueled and ready, to escape the bonds of gravity and carry to Victoria a scientific expedition that will rival Mr. Darwin's. The astro-nauts will for several months have time to catalogue and sample the flora and fauna of Victoria and, for the first time since the discovery of Australia, return bearing knowledge of a new world, and cement the names of those explorers in the annals of history.
For months Dr. Hightower has been assembling a crew to conduct this expedition. He has pilots, cooks, archivists, writers, dagguerotypists, painters, men-at-arms, and labourers, he told me, but he wants for one thing; a naturalist to manage the exploration and scientific observation of this foreign planet, and of all the men of learning he has known, he could think of no better individual than I to play this part. How could I refuse? Today I have been busy taking stock of what I shall need. We set off for Victoria on the twenty-first, when our world shall draw the closest to Victoria that it shall be in the next thirty years, and if luck and Providence provide, we shall return by Guy Fawkes Night. It is rare that I have ventured so far from our land of hope and glory, but England shall have to endure in my absence for a time.
April 23rd, 1856:
No matter how many times I am among the stars, I shall never grow accustomed to the sensation of weightlessness. One must learn anew how to perform the simplest tasks in this environment, as if returning to infancy; how to move about, how to eat and drink, how to sleep, even how to engage the water-closet, for absent the caress of gravity the slightest unintended twitch can send one hurtling every which way, and the slightest loose drop of moisture, applied to our rocket's apparati, could spell disaster.
This morning, our vessel conducted a circuit of the Moon. Dr. Hightower explained to me that we shall use our closest neighbor's gravitational field to produce an effect not unlike a sling-shot, granting acceleration that shall enable us to reach Victoria months before we might reach it otherwise. To achieve our target, we must travel twice as far through the blackness of space as the distance that stands between our Earth and the Sun itself. Thus far, Dr. Hightower assures me, all has gone in accordance with plan, and we should reach Victoria by the first of July.
We took advantage of our approach to the Moon to make as many observations as we could. We took several dagguerotypes from the on-board telescopes, and the artists have produced depictions of the dark side which Dr. Hightower informs me are the first ever made by man. I am told that the surface of the Moon is an inhospitable place, wanting entirely for air to breathe, that a vacuum-suit would be necessary to stand upon its surface, and that it will likely be a hundred years or more before such a deed is feasible. Still, I would very much like some day to attempt it.
May 24th, 1856:
Today is the Queen's birthday, and beside that, today marks the point where we are officially half-way to the world named for her. In her honour we held a party in the rocket's cafeteria. There has been little time for frivolity on this voyage thus far; all sixty-three of us have our appointed tasks to conduct every day, for our rocket is one of the most complex and intricate devices that man has ever engaged, and we are surrounded on all sides by millions of miles of emptiness from which no salvation will come if we are remiss in our duties.
Dr. Hightower toasted the Queen as we sipped the precious rations of champagne he had stowed for specifically this occasion, and I offered a toast to science and to the progress of our Empire. I wonder, what would Her Majesty say on this occasion, if she knew that Englishmen were praising her name ninety million miles away? I spent a good deal of time contemplating this as I stared out a port-hole into the darkness, the stars holding steady in the distance as we hurtled through the cosmos at a greater velocity than man has ever imagined. One truly feels small in these expanses. How insignificant is a man, how great is the mind of God, that in a thousand lifetimes one could not hope to cross from one end of the Universe to another?
June 30th, 1856:
Today we entered into Victoria's orbit. The artists and photographers have been busy at the port-holes and telescopes, creating the first records of this unexplored Eden. I was barely able to manage a peek for a few moments before giving up my spot, and I found myself utterly rapt at the sights that laid before me. What Dr. Hightower had shown me in the telescope at Greenwich was no illusion; the surface of the asteroid, now scarcely a dozen miles beneath my feet, was indeed blanketed thick with foliage, and I even fancied briefly that I espied a bird fluttering amongst the canopy.
Tomorrow, almost all of us shall board the landing craft and embark for the surface itself, the handful of pilots remaining aboard the rocket to maintain its orbit while we catalog Victoria's wonders for the next two months. Dr. Hightower has selected a landing zone at the edge of one of the cratered regions, where there is a break in the foliage large enough to attempt a landing without fear of being obstructed by the flora. I feel as Mr. Columbus must have felt when he espied the tawny, savage people of San Salvador through his spyglass. We are on the cusp of revelation of the sort that happens but once in a lifetime; for tomorrow I, Theodore Thomas Blackwood, explorer and gentleman, shall set my foot upon the virgin soil of a new world.
July 1st, 1856:
O glorious day!
It was barely half past five, London time, when our landing craft separated from the main rocket and made its way towards the surface of Victoria. The pressure of re-entry was almost unbearable, and flames licked the windows of the craft as we descended. It was dark outside the craft when we finally impacted the edge of the crater; Victoria is of such small size, Dr. Hightower explained, and of such an irregular shape, that it takes little more than four hours for it to complete a single rotation. Day and night are brief affairs; one can almost watch the sun, from this vantage a dim and distant orb no larger than the Moon, race across the purplish sky from when it rises in the north until it sinks in the south. Because Victoria is so miniscule in relation to the Earth, Dr. Hightower had warned us that we would weigh but a tiny fraction of what we do there. Perhaps it was simply because I have become so used to weightlessness in the past two months, but I feel no lighter here than I ever have.
Shortly after we made landfall, Dr. Hightower addressed us with a matter most grave. We know not, he said, whether the environmental conditions of Victoria are conducive to human life. It is entirely possible that the air of this world is unbreathable, or that its flora exude compounds poisonous to man, or that vicious beasts stood ready to tear a man apart, or that the air itself was lousy with bacteria that would kill a man slowly from the inside. It would be necessary, he said, for a single man to expose himself to Victoria before the rest of the expedition alighted, and by his fate demonstrate whether it was safe for man to even exist on this world. It was entirely possible that that man might die, and that his death might be most slow and uncomfortable; but such a sacrifice, if it had to be made, might save fifty-six other lives. No man would be forced to make this sacrifice, Dr. Hightower said; he sought only a man who was willing to risk his life in the name of science.
I immediately volunteered myself as a guinea-pig. Dr. Hightower at first objected; I was too critical to the mission, he said, to risk my life so frivolously. I put forth the proposition that as a peer of the realm and a gentleman, I have an obligation to, as it were, lead from the fore, and that I would never dream of putting any man under my authority into a position of hazard that I was not myself willing to occupy. If Victoria was too toxic for man to explore her wonders, I argued, then there could be no further expedition to begin with; and therefore, if I died in ascertaining its safety, there was nothing lost. The men were in solid agreement with this logic, and Dr. Hightower acquiesced; shortly before eleven in the morning London time, as the sun arose over the crater's edge, I stood alone, in my finest khakis, boots, and helmet, in the landing craft's air-lock.
The hatch opened and I breathed my first breath of Victorian air. It was hot and thick, more severe even than the oppression of the Amazonian jungle, with a bitter scent not unlike cinnamon. I breathed deeply, and though it was a most labourious effort, I found it not as hostile as the choking air of Mars, nor as cruel and unyielding as the sparse atmosphere of the Himalayas. Though I stood bare and exposed on a world where man had never before dwelled, I lived. Cautiously, I made my way down the gantry and set my foot upon the earth, the treads in my boot impressing themselves in the virgin soil. How small a step for a man! How great a leap for the Empire!
The earth before me was barren and plain. Less than a mile distant I beheld the forest that blanketed Victoria; like a brick wall, it seemed to stand impenetrable, jutting hundreds of feet above the surface. The purple sky was a sharp contrast to the greenery, a vision worthy of one of the great French Impressionists. I lack the words to truly describe the sight and the emotions that ran through me as I beheld that alien landscape, and I wondered if a poet ought to have descended in my stead. With as much solemnity as I could muster, I produced from my jacket a Union Flag, mounted to a small pole, and reverentially mounted it in the earth. As the men watched eagerly from the windows of the crowded vessel, I fell to my knees in the Victorian soil and made an address, heard but by God, that I had written and revised in my mind for hours since;
I, Theodore Thomas Blackwood, CBE, 7th Viscount of Winchester, do hereby claim in perpetuity this land, the planet Victoria, in the name of Her Majesty the Queen Victoria and of her British Empire, on this, the first day of July, in the Year of Our Lord 1856, and do hereby pray to our Lord and Saviour that our expedition to this land shall be fruitful and pleasing unto Him. God save the Queen.
I remained alone on the surface of the planet for several hours, an entire Victorian sunrise and sunset occurring in the meanwhile as I took samples of the soil and documented in my journal the conditions of that world. By the time the sun rose again at half past three and the rest of the crew could see that I was alive and well, they began to alight as well. We established our base camp at the edge of the forest, which seemed to terminate at a certain point as if a line had been drawn in the sand and no plant dared extend its roots further. Tomorrow we shall begin our journey into the forest proper, and endeavour to learn what we can of this planet.
July 3rd, 1856
I once thought, dear reader, that I had beheld all there was that a man could hope to see in Creation. I have wandered the jungles of South America, and blazed trails across the frontiers of the West. I have lived among the unknown cults of India and Bangla Desh. I have trekked across the great Outback, wandered the vast and empty forests of Siberia, and lead men and dogs across the vast plateaus of Antarctica.
So I had thought, until this day. Were I to make a comparison, I would say that the Victorian forest is most like that of the rain-forests of Brazil; beneath the massive trees, little of the already sparse sunlight reaches, and were it not for our electric torches we would be altogether blind. The undergrowth is thick and impassable, and we have had to make liberal use of our machetes to cut a path into the forest. Dr. Hightower's thermometer attests that the temperature, day or night, is almost a constant one hundred and thirty degrees Fahrenheit, hotter than all but the most desolate of the Arabian wastelands. The flora here must derive their nutrition from the heat of the air, for no terrestrial plant could hope to blossom in an environment this dim. Already we have collected several hundred samples of organisms unlike none that have been seen on Earth; I imagine that Oxford itself will be set on its ear for decades in endeavouring to decrypt the nature of these organisms once we announce our findings.
To our universal surprise and delight, we have discovered this day that there is not only foliage, but that animal life exists on Victoria as well. Four-winged creatures not unlike insects flit through the air, alighting from flower to flower in the vines that cris-cross the jungle. From mounds on the earth teem thousands upon thousands of creatures that for all the world are dead ringers for the common ants one may find anywhere on Earth. We collected many samples of the insect life. The ants, however, responded with great hostility when we attempted to examine them; Mr. Andrews, one of the junior biologists in the mission, was suddenly set upon by thousands of the creatures when he attempted to examine their nest, and found himself suffering a toxic condition as the result of their bite. As we have yet to encounter any megafauna, I am beginning to suspect that the ants are the dominant organism of this world. I have often felt a curious rhythm emanating from the earth whenever I approach their nests, and I suspect that some subterranean machinery may be to account.
July 11th, 1856:
Today our expedition reached the base of the giant tree at Victoria's pole. It has been less than ten miles from the landing site to the tree's base; the jungle, however, has proven so thick that cutting our way through the thick vines has proven a full-time occupation for many of the men. We have observed yet no larger animals than the dragon-flies of this world; as thick as the various and entangled vines of the flora are, I doubt that any larger animals could even evolve here.
We have named this great tree the Major Oak, in reference to that ancient tree in Sherwood where Robin Hood and his band of outlaws held court. It is indeed, as I first considered it from telescope, very similar to the rare palms that grow along the tropical coast, but unlike those plants it is truly massive; it stands some four hundred feet tall, and seven of the men with their arms outstretched were barely able to encircle it.
I have taken several core samples from the Major Oak, and would have willingly climbed her myself to acquire a sample of her fronds. But I am not the young man that I once was, and it was decided that Mr. Edelman, a junior biologist late of Cambridge, would perform that obligation. I watched in stunned silence with the men as he shimmied up that massive trunk which must have taken millennia to become what it is today, and saluted us with a single thumb cast skyward as he reached the top of the organism.
As I sit here writing in my tent at the base of the Major Oak, I find it impossible to believe that we have made such incredible breakthroughs in so many days. What will they say, I wonder, when we return to Earth, and the proof of our exploration is published, plain for the world to see, in every periodical from San Francisco to Peking? Perhaps I shall finally earn the knighthood that I long have coveted; but no temporal honour is greater than the knowledge that the progress of science and reason, and of the glory of the British Empire, has been advanced by my efforts.
July 27th, 1856:
A most terrible calamity has befallen us this day. Half past six in the morning, at the second sunrise of the day, we heard a strange sound in the distance, a droning sound barely liminal at first, that slowly grew louder and more ominous. It seemed to come from the direction of the sunrise. Mr. Andrews held his binoculars to the horizon and espied a terrible doom - a swarm of insects, not unlike the common locust, voraciously devouring everything in its path and moving with great speed toward our base camp!
We have not yet seen this type of swarming behavior from the Victorian fauna, and in any event we had little time to study it, for in fifteen minutes they descended upon us. We scrambled to move as much equipment into the landing craft as we could, for what we left behind, the creatures devoured or destroyed. Poor Mr. Jacobs did not make it to the air-lock in time, and I watched in horror as hundreds of the insects enveloped him and stripped him to the bone in seconds. Minutes later, the swarm was gone and we emerged to survey the destruction.
We are fortunate to have lost little of our research; however, we have lost many of our tents and a good deal of food and fresh water. Worst of all, the engines of the landing craft themselves have been compromised; Mr. Darren, the pilot, says we cannot now take off to rejoin our rocket in orbit, and it shall have to be repaired if we are to have any hope of ever leaving this world.
For now, my work continues as it has. Many of the men have been assigned to rebuild the engines; the rest of us shall continue to study and observe, and pray for their success. Dr. Hightower says that the rocket must begin its return to Earth no later than the first of November, lest the distance between our worlds become so great that the trip would be years in the taking. The doctor is confident that the engines can be repaired, and that we should be homeward bound by September. A more immediate concern, however, is that we now have but two weeks worth of food left to us, and with the landing craft out of commission there is no way to bring more from the rocket, or even alert them to our distress. The water that flows in creeks and rivulets upon this world, and dribbles from the trees like morning dew, has proven safe to drink; but if we are to endure on Victoria until summer's end, we shall have to determine which of the native organisms are safe to eat.

NOTE TO THE READER:
At Mr. Blackwood's request, I have heavily revised and edited the following two entries in this journal. As Mr. Blackwood had at the time come under the unfortunate effects of consuming Victoria's native flora, he was not of sound mind when he wrote these pages. The following entries contained numerous errors in spelling and standardized sentence structure, rambling and incoherent tangents of an incomprehensible nature, and several vulgarities which Mr. Blackwood is not proud of, and partway through the second entry he had abandoned the English language entirely and began to write in Chinese.
I have translated and standardized the spelling throughout, and expunged those portions which Mr. Blackwood has asked me to omit. I have done my best to maintain his genteel and scholarly tone, and to describe the state of mind he was in at the time. I hope the reader will not feel that I have taken any undue liberties.
-Deeds, being of smokeless fire

August 16th, 1856:
It is difficult to write at this time. Though the affliction I suffer is less severe than many of the men, I find my mind clouded and confused, and it is a Herculean effort to keep my thoughts clear enough to express.
We spent several days in experimentation with the native foodstuffs. Several of the vines and fruits were poisonous, and five of the men died most uncomfortable deaths. We eventually discovered several of the larger vines bear sweet and savoury vegetables that could be eaten and digested without discomfort, and were indeed not unpleasant in taste. We feasted liberally that night, though at Dr. Hightower's request the men working on the engines were to abstain for fear of a long-term effect that might impair their critical work. His judgment may yet save us all.
Several days after we began eating the native food, we began to turn green. It was a minor pallour at first, like that of a jaundiced man, but with time it grew more severe. Some of the men who have eaten the most are almost the same colour as the trees themselves. The colouring itself seemed to bear no more malicious effects along with it, however. Dr. Hightower assured us it was safe to continue eating, but I voluntarily cut my rations at that time. I have been eating only sparingly the last two weeks, and have lost a considerable amount of weight.
A few days after that, the men began going mad. At first they complained of having difficulty in cognition (as I now do myself) and claimed hallucinations. Later they began speaking in nonsense entirely; several of them seem to sit for hours and have conversations in utter gibberish. A few have taken to frolicking naked amongst the trees and rolling in the dirt, referring to the plants as their "sisters" and attempting to court them as if they were eligible ladies. Dr. Hightower has been spending his time by the largest ant-hills; he claims the ants are heathens, and that he intends to convince them of the righteousness of Christianity. He sits for hours with his ear to the ground, the ants crawling around and over him, reading aloud from the New Testament; as I write, he is currently on the seventeenth chapter of Acts. (Curiously enough, I had always understood Dr. Hightower to be of the Jewish faith.)
I pray the engineers have our vessel repaired soon, for I fear the men may be beyond saving if we remain here much longer. I had to shoot two of the men yesterday; they had come to the determination that our landing craft was a "great metallic devil" and had to be slain, and were attempting to chew their way through the wires of an instrument panel. We are almost out of terrestrial food; the engineers may have to begin eating Victorian foliage in a day or two, and choose between madness or starvation. Either way, we are surely doomed. We came to Victoria to explore in peace; instead, we may remain here to rest in peace.
September 8th, 1856:
Dr. Hightower's madness may have saved us after all. I awoke from a stupour this afternoon, having collapsed in a stream by our base camp, only to find myself in the air, being carried by a blanket of ants. I looked up and saw that ants were swarming over what remained of our camp by the millions; streams of them coming from every which direction, and making their way to our ship. I feared that they intended to finish the job the locusts had begun; but not one of the men made any sound of distress, and I found that I had not a single bite upon me. The ants were carrying men by the dozens and loading them into our lander, and carrying other objects as well; great hunks of metal, and tools the likes of which I have never beheld before. They crawled in and out of the damaged engines. By God, they were repairing them!
In less than two hours, Mr. Gregory, the engineer, a man now emaciated and half-starved for want of food, reported that the engines had come alive and our escape was possible. Not all of the men were aboard, but we saw no sign of the others; either they have perished, or run off into the forest in utter madness. In any event, those of us of sound enough mind voted and decided we could not spare another day to search for them; we have been given an opportunity, and we must make use of it. I caught a final glimpse of the Union Flag I had planted in the soil in July as we lifted off, the twenty-six of us that were left abandoning the mad planet Victoria for the last time.
December 12th, 1856:
The journey back home was a long and arduous one, but I have never felt so relieved to be back in London as I was when Deeds greeted me at the door with a nip of brandy and my favorite silk pyjamas. With as few of us in possession of our faculties as there were at the outset, it was nearly impossible to operate the rocket safely; many of us did not sleep for days. Fortunately, once liberated from the planet and its madness-inducing flora, the men began to recover their senses, and our flesh acquired once again a healthy shade. Most of the men remember little of the time they were under the influence of those horrid crops. Dr. Hightower, I fear, may not recover fully; he is lucid, indeed, but he lacks the sharp mind and cleverness he once had, and shall be retiring to the country.
When I spoke to him the day before last, we agreed for now that it is best not to publish our full findings on Victoria. Any attempt to colonize that land will surely end in disaster; and if the culture of the ants is as advanced and sophisticated as it seems, they could oppress and conquer our Empire as easily as the rebellions in India and Zululand of late have been put down. I shall keep the samples and notes we acquired at my country estate for safe-keeping; perhaps in a few decades, when we better understand the chemistry of those organisms, another adventure might be advisable.
Deeds was seeing to the cleaning and mending of the clothes I had brought on that ill-fated expedition today when he informed me that several live ants had crawled out a pocket and escaped through a crack in the wall. It is entirely possible they were nothing more than ordinary insects, but I wonder; after so many of the Victorian ants crawled over and through our ship repairing our systems, how many stow-aways might we have brought back with us?


« Act I, Scene II: Deontic
David Eskobar came to wishing he had a blanket. It was freezing cold in this field; he mentally kicked himself for not bringing a jacket, or gloves, or sturdier shoes. He glanced up from where he was lying in the grass, saw several distinct landmarks. Oh, it's Washington, he thought, I always heard how cold Washington was in the winter, but I had never felt it before. Probably lucky it's not —
Wait, what am I doing in Washington? Last thing I remember, I was—
And then David realized the world around him was in black-and-white, and the crackling of snow beneath his hands as he rose up sounded far away, like it was happening underwater. This wasn't real.
“It's very real, David,” a voice said from in front of him. “Just strange.”
David looked around and examined his surroundings. He saw a tall, elderly man walking across a large, Greek Revival-era patio. The White House, he realized. Another man was hiding, squatting around a corner, waiting for the old man to walk past. Holding two pistols.
Oh God, he's going to—
“Shoot him, yes,” the voice in front of him said.
It was like David's eyes were refocusing to see something that had been right in front of him, but that he didn't want to look at. Suddenly David saw what was there; a man, tall, wrapped in a long, dark blue cloak, facing away from him. Facing towards the scene unfolding in front of them.
The old man kept walking forward, oblivious. He passed the corner where the man sat, hiding.
“Twenty, ten, even five years ago,” the voice in front of David said, “he never would have been so stupid as to walk unaccompanied, not paying attention to his surroundings. He just left a funeral, you see. His mind is dwelling on thoughts of death. Thinking about his wife, dead five years now; and his brother, murdered before his eyes when he was a child; and the many men he has killed himself.”
The man behind the corner emerged, screamed incoherently, raised his pistol. Fired at point-blank range into the elderly man's side. The man screamed as he fell, pivoted towards the gunman, who raised his other pistol and fired into the man's chest.
“He has been shot so many times, risked his life so many times. But this is the last. He dies now.”
David watched as the gunman fled the scene. “He's going to get away with murder?”
“Oh, no,” the tall man said. “He is completely insane. He will begin raving about what he has done in a paint shop not far from this place, and will be arrested. A mob will lynch him before he can make it to jail after the trial. Nobody will mind. People will believe the old man was killed by a vast conspiracy led by the British. Largely for unrelated reasons, a war will break out, in the fitful way it did in this time period. There are more consequences; would you like to hear them?”
David was horrified by everything he was seeing. “Who is he? The dead man, I mean?”
“One of the leaders of your nation-state, Andrew Jackson. I am told he is somewhat important in your history.”
I don't really remember much about him, David thought, but isn't he on the twenty-dollar bill? “I think so, but I don't recall very well. What happened to my stutter?”
“Your ideal mind is in this place, rather than the flawed one of your more permanent existence. I know Jackon's importance. So many branching paths lead from this moment. Some lead to aristocratic dominion, some lead to civil war, some lead to mediocrity, some lead to greatness. One of them leads to a utopian world government that ends disease and death and takes mankind to the stars. One of them leads to a catastrophic plague wiping out the human race. But none of them truly end, not ever. Time marches on, as one of your philosophers put it. Lawrence, as I recall. So much variety with assassinations. I think it is why I interfere in so many of them.”
“Who are you?” David asked.
“You know of me,” the being said, and turned to face him.
David understood many things better in that moment. He understood why men went mad after seeing what he was seeing now. He understood why the only detail they remembered were the eyes. “You're…you're the man in the sundial. 961-1, we call you.”
“I am aware of what you call me,” the entity said. "The name is not less wrong than any of the others. I think of myself as the Intruder." David noticed his lips weren't moving. Then he noticed the man had no lips, or eyes. Then no head. For a brief moment, he saw that the entity both had and didn't have a face. David had to stop looking.
“My appearance is confusing to you. It is what it needs to be at the moment. Beings such as yourself perceive from me what I wish them to perceive. For example, perhaps I look like this.” His face, clothing, body, all transformed. The entity then looked…completely human. And was dressed in the same style of clothing the other two men he saw had been. Nineteenth-century menswear.
David saw the figure shimmer, flicker out of existence for a moment, then returned. He reverted to his previous form. “See? They thought I was one of them,” the entity said.
David was confused, then turned around, hearing voices behind him. The scene was very different; the shooter was being held down by several men accompanying Jackson. But Jackson was still dead. Others were attending to his wounds, but David knew they would fail.
“I appeared at the funeral he was leaving,” the figure said. “I convinced several men to go with Jackson, fearing for his safety. They did so. I altered time, changed the past. A dramatic act. You see the difference?”
David didn't. He was still dead, with whatever implications that held for…everything. The nation, the world, he thought. The Foundation, maybe; who knows what that kind of change—
“Your Foundation organization always exists, if I can help it,” the entity said. “Or something similar to it. I have changed many things, in many times and places, but there is…a need for people like you and your group. Forces and beings that desperately need to be suppressed.”
David's mind was reeling. So much was happening back in the real world, and he was here, watching a deranged time-traveling demigod justify himself. He had to get back.
“Not a demigod, David,” the creature said. “Many things, but not godlike. Just…trapped. I have an obligation to undo certain…errors I have made. And this is where you come in. Whether you like it or not, you are a part of those mistakes now, and it is part of your future to help correct them.”
--
David was stunned. All fear forgotten, he said, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I began doing this out of…pity, of sorts. I found myself in possession of certain abilities, felt I had an obligation to…help. I wanted to help people. I did.
“One of my first actions, I tried to tweak a military contest, one from long ago. I was…I was so sure I understood enough, that I could avoid the pitfalls. I was sure I could make this world a better place if I could divert all of the energy that this species spends on warfare, channel it into more creative tasks. Centuries, millennia of constant fighting and killing and dying. So I changed the outcome of a battle and waited to see how things unfolded. I was so stupid.
“Everything is permanent, you understand. Even I cannot undo an edit once it is made. You can change things back, but there is always a place, somewhere, where everything remains. The world I made when I changed that battle is still there. And now it is breaking through into your world. Others, as well. Their technology is powerful, but incompletely controlled.
“I can edit certain aspects of this world, but I cannot leave it. I cannot even know with certainty what will happen if others leave, or if the errors can be rectified. But there are certain guesses I can make, certain extrapolations of what that world looks like, of what can be done to protect this timeline. Of what has to be done to protect us all.”
David stood there and listened while the being in front of him spoke. He detailed a lengthy plan, maybe an impossible plan. A plan that would involve dozens, hundreds of factors going together perfectly. Even before the completely unknowable part of what would happen on the other side. David asked questions; the entity answered them, in such a way as to persuade him that the plan was feasible. There were holes, of course, but the entity promised to help as far as it could.
The being flickered in and out several times. “I have made certain…arrangements that will make the task you must perform easier. Make sure the person I have specified is at the designated location at that particular time. Make sure her instructions are clear. You will remember this conversation very acutely when you awaken in the containment area; your actions are responsible for her actions, and the damage that could ensue if she fails is incalculable. Do you have any final questions?”
“Two,” David replied. “Why do you care so much about our welfare? If you're outside of the timeline, or however you exist, why are you so concerned with what happens?”
The entity paused, stood silently. “I can accept that humans are inevitably bound to destroy themselves,” the entity finally said. “What I cannot accept is the idea of myself as the one who destroyed this species. Others can ignore the rapid decline of cultures, nations, civilizations, knowing they are powerless to do anything about it. I do not have that privilege. As poor a choice as I may be for this task, I am the one who has it regardless. I cannot stop.”
David had no choice but to accept this answer. He had a second question. “Why do I feel it getting warmer?” he asked.
“More humid, actually,” the entity said. “I have had a change of heart. Look.”
David turned and looked at the spectacle behind him, only to see it had reset to the beginning. The elderly man walking across the portico, talking to his friends, his cane tapping against the stone. The madman with two pistols, lying in wait. The man walks past the corner. The assassin raises the pistol in his right hand.
Click. The first gun misfires. He raises the second pistol, aims directly for the heart, prepares to make history—
Click.
Jackson's friends had to restrain both men; the assassin, who was trying to flee, and the president, who was trying to beat the man to death with his cane.
“They will recall how unseasonably humid it was,” the entity said. “The model of pistol he was using will be remembered as one with a high probability of mechanical failure in humid conditions. It will be noted that the statistical likelihood of both guns failing remains remarkably low. It is a sloppy job.” The entity stood for a moment. “It will do.”
David was no longer even surprised by this. He turned back to the entity. “How do I get back?”
“Quickly,” the entity said, and David disappeared from the White House lawn. The Intruder stood and watched the scene for a moment, and disappeared as well.

Intermission: Good Morning, Sunshine


Interview Log 1867-23
Interviewer: Dr. Adam Bernstein
Interviewed: SCP-1867
Forward: During a standard checkup interview with SCP-1867 the subject, at the request of Dr. Bernstein, was asked to elaborate on the nature of one of the items found in his collection- an ornate brass baton. The baton, while showing no overt anomalous properties, caught Dr. Bernstein's attention due to amount of dried blood still covering it. SCP-1867 complied enthusiastically.
Begin Log
Dr. Bernstein:: Good afternoon, SCP-1867.Dr. Bernstein: Very well. Theodore, I would like to ask you a few question about this [shows picture of the baton].Dr. Bernstein: Would you care to elaborate?Dr. Bernstein: Please, continue.Dr. Bernstein: Focus on the baton, please.Dr. Bernstein: Does this have anything to do with the baton?Dr. Bernstein: Why did the Prime Minister need you to get rid of this wizard?Dr. Bernstein: Carry on.Dr. Bernstein: [sighs] Focus please, SCP-1867.Dr. Bernstein: And how did the raid go?Dr. Bernstein: What did the device do to Sargent Monroe?Dr. Bernstein: So the baton is just an ordinary command baton? No thaumaturgic power to it?Dr. Bernstein: I would think so.
End Log

Footnotes
1. Known today as the Crimean War.
2. No information about this event exists in Foundation archives.
3. The Indonesian Howler Sloth is believed to be one of the previously unknown species of mammal found in Blackwood's possessions.


"Fucking hell, Sarah," Mitchell said. "I guess I'll just stop talking. Just…" He made a growling sound of frustration.
"You know how much I hate it when you curse at me," Sarah said. "You can't argue without cursing. I hate it." She sighed. "And that weird growling sound. It makes me afraid you're going to hit—"
"Afraid I'm going to hit you, yes," Mitchell interrupted. "Because that's ever happened in the past. I can't just be angry at how fucking irrational you are all the goddamn time; no, I must be abusive. Jesus Christ, Sarah."
She was crying already. Mitchell felt terrible, but he wasn't willing to apologize yet. This trip was already a nightmare, and Mitchell didn't think the hike would be much better. He thought about turning around, decided against it. May as well give her some time to calm down, he thought.
They reached the parking lot for the trail, sullenly put on their packs, and carried on. After an hour or so, Mitchell finally turned to Sarah. "Look, I'm sorry. For the way I acted."
"I…" Sarah sighed. "Yeah, I'm sorry too. I know how stressful it can be, doing as much work as you do. You really do need to work on your anger issues, though—"
"I know," Mitchell said.
"—and also your interrupting issues," Sarah said, frowning for a moment. Mitchell apologized again.
They held hands the rest of the way along the trail, stopping to sit on a rock for a moment. Sarah got out her canteen and took a drink, passing it to Mitchell. I really do love him, she thought. I just wish he could be—
Sarah saw something peeking its head out of the woods. Is that a monkey? she thought. What's it doing out—
The monkey dashed along the ground towards them. "Mitchell! Look out!" Sarah screamed. Mitchell turned and looked just in time to see the little monkey bite him on the hand and dash off into the woods.
"Ow, goddammit!" Mitchell yelled. But the bite didn't hurt as much as he felt like it should, so he composed himself. She already thinks I have anger issues, he thought. No reason to act crazy now, not when we're patching things up. "Aw, that was weird," he said.
"Oh my god, are you okay?" Sarah asked
"Yeah, yeah, it's cool," Mitchell said, playing off the pain. "Dude had little teeth or something. Eh, I'll be all right."
Sarah packed the bags back up; Mitchell did the same. They began walking back.
Half an hour of far more pleasant conversation followed. Halfway back to the parking lot, Sarah paused a moment. "Do you smell that?" she asked.
Mitchell sniffed. "I don't smell anything."
"Of course you don't," Sarah snapped, "you never smell anything. Jesus, I think you have a tumor or something. Same way you can't hear anything, either. At least not anything I say." Sarah shook her head and walked around for a minute, sniffing the air.
"God, sorry," Mitchell said, recoiling slightly.
Sarah sighed. "It's disgusting. I don't know how you could possibly not smell that." They kept walking.
"Oh, god," she said after a while. "I know where it's coming from. It's you. I'm sure of it. What is that?"
"Hmm?" he asked.
"Jesus, you really don't listen, do you?"
"Oh, not this again," Mitchell huffed. "What is it now? Am I not picking my feet up enough? Did I pick my nose? Do I have too many zits? Did I bring the wrong books? Did I forget what your favorite purse looks like? Did the food I brought not have enough green vegetables? What do you have to complain about now, for fuck's sake?" Mitchell realized he'd gone too far, took a step towards Sarah. "Oh, shit, baby, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
Sarah slapped Mitchell directly across the face. "You pissant piece of shit, don't you ever speak to me like that again!"
Mitchell was shocked, and in a considerable amount of pain. He rubbed the spot on his face where Sarah slapped him; it had come back with a spot of blood on it. He looked at Sarah and was shocked. She looked nearly crazed with anger.
Sarah charged at him; Mitchell didn't know what to do, so he started running away. He dropped his pack on the ground so as to run faster. Sarah was close behind him, though; her time at the gym left her in better shape than he was.
Mitchell heard a rustling in the woods beside him, then saw a form emerge. A dog was running next to him. Not even a big dog, maybe just a terrier. Mitchell didn't think much of this until the chipper-looking dog launched itself at him, growling and snarling as though it were rabid. The thirty-pound terrier brushed past Mitchell, its teeth nipping at Mitchell's leg before falling to the side. What the fuck is going on? he thought.
He wasn't looking at the trail closely enough. A group of small animals were coming at him, mostly squirrels and stray cats. Startled, Mitchell tripped and fell to the ground, huffing. The squirrels began nibbling on his ears as soon as they reached him, while the cats clawed at his hands.
Sarah was close behind. Mitchell fought to throw the animals off of him, clawing his way forward, but Sarah was too fast. She dove onto his back, knees first, shoving him to the ground with her weight.
"You piece…of shit…" Sarah snarled, beating on the back of Mitchell's head with the bottoms of her fists, "moody….insecure…pussy…asshole!" The blows kept raining down. Mitchell was dizzy, his blood all over the ground now. He was barely holding on to consciousness. "I fucking…hate you…you son of a bitch! Just…fucking…die!"
Sarah found a palm-sized stone on the ground nearby. The terrier caught up to the group and started biting at Mitchell's ankles. That was the last feeling Mitchell noticed before the rock smashed into his skull the first time. He didn't feel the last twenty-six times.

Researcher Kim was sitting in front of his computer, considering the information in front of him. There were six murders now, all unrelated, all in wooded regions of the Southeast United States. All committed by people with no history of violent crime, often simply people who were near the victim. Hell, in two of the cases, multiple people all joined in, beating or clawing or kicking the victim to death. And in every instance, all signs pointed to a temporary yet total psychotic break. They all simply decided to kill somebody near them.
Ten people do not "turn crazy" all at once. They don't murder a man for no reason. Their official cover stories involved drugs, gas leaks, the usual, but Kim wasn't the only one who knew that didn't explain things. Kim agreed with his colleagues who forwarded him the information; something anomalous was going on. He just had no idea what to do with that knowledge. He had no idea how to find…whatever this was.
He heard a rustling sound behind him, like paper on tile. Rubbing his eyes (how is it already past midnight, Kim thought), he turned to look.
A large manila envelope was just in front of his door. Kim walked over, opened the door, looked back and forth down the long hallway. Nobody.
He closed the door and grabbed the envelope. Inside he found a batch of twenty photos, a printout of a Wikipedia article, and a single sheet of paper with some words scrawled on it.
He looked at the photos. He was shocked to recognize many of them, all photos of the victims he had been looking at only a few minutes ago. First he saw Mitchell Rosenberg, the most recent victim, covered in bite marks and lying with his head smashed in from behind. Next was another photo, much closer, showing Mitchell's hand. A circle was drawn around one bite in particular.
The rest of the photos were the same; first, a victim, then, a single bite. Kim's knowledge of forensic science wasn't needed here. Anybody would have recognized it. Each victim was covered in bites from small animals, but they were usually different animals. This bite, however, was exactly the same on every single victim. Many of the photos were of victims Kim didn't recognize; he assumed they were new.
He put down the photos and picked up the single sheet of paper. After some time, he was able to make out the scrawl. It was an address somewhere in Tennessee, no place Kim recognized. Below that read simply "LOOK IN THE BARN. BRING MASKS."
Kim, confused, put the paper on top of the photos and looked at the Wikipedia article:

The Philippine tarsier (Carlito syrichta), known locally as the kupal in Cebuano/Visayan and mamag in Luzon…

He skimmed the article and began typing a message to his supervisor.


Interview Log 662-37
Interviewer: Dr. S. Samesh
Interviewed: SCP-662-1 ("Mr. Deeds")
Foreword: During a review of objects found among the effects of SCP-1867, a journal was found in which SCP-1867 made several references to employing an individual named "Deeds" as a valet. In light of SCP-1867's apparent knowledge of and interactions with several known SCP objects, an interview was conducted to determine whether SCP-662-1 was the same individual referred to by SCP-1867, and what knowledge, if any, it had of that individual and the veracity of its claims.
<Begin Log, ██/██/20██, 12:53 PM>
Dr. Samesh enters the interview room, seats himself at the table, and rings SCP-662. After a period of 38 seconds, the door to the interview room opens and Mr. Deeds enters.
Mr. Deeds: Good afternoon, Dr. Samesh. How may I be of service?
Dr. Samesh: Please have a seat, Mr. Deeds. I would like to ask you some questions.
Mr. Deeds: Very well, sir.
Mr. Deeds seats himself.
Dr. Samesh: Have you at any time in your recollection been in the service of a man named Theodore Thomas Blackwood?
Mr. Deeds: Yes, sir, I was employed by Mr. Blackwood for a considerable period of time.
Dr. Samesh: Good. We would like to ascertain certain facts relating to Mr. Blackwood.
Mr. Deeds: Forgive me, sir, but as a gentleman's gentleman I am obligated not to discuss the private lives of my past employers.
Dr. Samesh: I do not intend to pry, Mr. Deeds. An individual claiming to be Mr. Blackwood is currently in our custody and for his own good we need to determine the veracity of his claims.
Mr. Deeds: Indeed, sir? That seems most unlikely. I had heard that Mr. Blackwood perished during the unpleasantness in Patagonia in 1893.
Dr. Samesh: I see. When were you first hired by Mr. Blackwood?
Mr. Deeds: The twenty-eighth of June, 1837, sir.
Dr. Samesh: And for how long were you employed by him?
Mr. Deeds: Intermittently for the following sixty years or so, sir.
Dr. Samesh: Intermittently?
Mr. Deeds: Mr. Blackwood was frequently out of the country and had no need for a gentleman's gentleman. As the household staff was easily capable of handling the affairs of his estate, I was temporarily engaged by other individuals during his absence.
Dr. Samesh: When did you leave his employment for the last time?
Mr. Deeds: I do not recall the exact date, sir, but I believe it was shortly after the turn of the century.
Dr. Samesh: Mr. Deeds, are you aware you previously told me that Mr. Blackwood died in 1893?
Mr. Deeds: Yes, sir.
Dr. Samesh: How is it you continued to work for him until after the turn of the century?
Mr. Deeds is momentarily silent.
Mr. Deeds: I am not certain, sir.
Dr. Samesh: I see. What were your primary duties as Mr. Blackwood's valet?
Mr. Deeds: I was principally responsible for the upkeep of Mr. Blackwood's estates and the management of the household staff. I additionally managed his finances and appointments, received and forwarded his mail while he was away, did his shopping, and handled the acquisition and maintenance of his armaments and expeditioneering equipment.
Dr. Samesh: Did you possess your current abilities at the time Mr. Blackwood employed you?
Mr. Deeds: I do not recall, sir.
Dr. Samesh: How old was Mr. Blackwood when you first met him?
Mr. Deeds: As a gentleman, sir, I did not ask.
Dr. Samesh: Very well. How old did you believe him to be?
Mr. Deeds: Based on his physical appearance, I would have judged him to be a man of no more than forty.
Dr. Samesh: And when you last saw him?
Mr. Deeds: No more than forty, sir.
Dr. Samesh: Are you saying he did not age in sixty years?
Mr. Deeds: I… I cannot say, sir.
Dr. Samesh: Did Mr. Blackwood ever discuss his family or his childhood with you?
Mr. Deeds: I do not recall him ever mentioning family. I recall his stating that he lived in the West Country as a child and attended school at Eton, that he had received a sizable inheritance, and that his title was a hereditary one.
Dr. Samesh: What was that title?
Mr. Deeds: I believe he was a viscount, sir, but I do not recall of what locale.
Dr. Samesh: Was he ever married?
Mr. Deeds: I do not recall ever seeing him in the company of a woman, sir.
Dr. Samesh: You mentioned armaments earlier. What sort of armaments were those?
Mr. Deeds: Mainly pistols and rifles, sir. He also possessed several atomic rifles and destabilizing muskets manufactured by Mr. Moth's of Manchester. I handled the purchase of those myself; they were fine weapons indeed. I recall that he returned from one expedition with an electric rifle that he found most fascinating. He tested it on me once and it was most effective.
Dr. Samesh: Mr. Blackwood tested his weapons on you?
Mr. Deeds: I expect the agency would have been most upset had they learned of it, sir, but I was only doing as requested. In any event, as you can see, I suffered no lasting harm.
Dr. Samesh: Did Mr. Blackwood ever talk to you about his voyages?
Mr. Deeds: Quite often, sir. He would often revise his journals in his study and ask me for opinions of his word choice. I enjoyed hearing his stories very much.
Dr. Samesh: I would like you to read one of the journals we acquired recently, Mr. Deeds.
Mr. Deeds: Very well, sir.
Dr. Samesh hands Mr. Deeds a copy of the excerpts from Journal #23 relating to the events of May-June 1883. Mr. Deeds spends the following twelve minutes reading silently.
Mr. Deeds: Finished, sir.
Dr. Samesh: To the best of your knowledge, are the events described in this journal true?
Mr. Deeds: I was not present for the events in France, sir, but the account of the events in London is completely true to the best of my recollection.
Dr. Samesh: Do you have any secondhand knowledge of the events in France?
Mr. Deeds: The description in this journal conforms to what Mr. Blackwood told me upon his return, sir. I recall that there was a great deal of speculation about the nature of the disaster in the newspapers at the time. The Telegraph was certain that the world itself was coming to an end.
Dr. Samesh: Are you certain, Mr. Deeds?
Mr. Deeds: Completely, sir.
Dr. Samesh: Mr. Deeds, we have been unable to locate any newspaper reports from 1883, or French government documents of any sort, referring to a monster or to a nuclear explosion. Diaries and secondhand accounts relating to the life of Theodore Roosevelt indicate that he was living in New York the entirety of 1883 and did not leave the US during that time. Testing has determined that there is no significant background radiation in Provence and we have found no evidence that any pre-1883 buildings in Avignon or the surrounding areas were ever damaged by an explosion, nor are there any indications that an unusually large number of people died in that year. We can locate no evidence to prove that any of this is true.
Mr. Deeds: I don't suppose that you would, sir.
Dr. Samesh: Why is that, Mr. Deeds?
Mr. Deeds winces.
Mr. Deeds: I cannot say, sir.
Dr. Samesh: Very well, we are almost done. One more question; at any time in any of your interactions with Mr. Blackwood, was he, or did he appear to be, a sea slug?
Mr. Deeds: I beg your pardon, sir?
Dr. Samesh: A variable neon slug, Mr. Deeds. Nembrotha kubaryana. At any point in the time you knew him, was he one?
Mr. Deeds: No, sir.
Dr. Samesh: Thank you, Mr. Deeds. That will be all.
Mr. Deeds: Thank you, sir.
Mr. Deeds stands up and walks to the door. Before leaving the room, he turns around.
Mr. Deeds: Actually, sir…
Dr. Samesh: Yes, Mr. Deeds?
Mr. Deeds: I do not know if it is relevant, but your question reminds me of a most unusual dream I had many years ago.
Dr. Samesh: What was that?
Mr. Deeds: Mr. Blackwood had summoned me to his study. When I arrived, there was a small slug sitting on his davenport. I heard him greet me and request a scotch and soda, and his voice seemed to emanate from the slug. I asked if he was in any way feeling distressed or unusual, and he asserted that nothing was amiss and he felt as healthy as he ever had. I… do not recall what happened after that.
Dr. Samesh: Thank you, Mr. Deeds.
<End Log, 1:17 PM>


Doctor Amy Sze walked past the masses of employees gathered at the cafeteria. For her, it would be another regular day of work - cut down the paperwork tree that grows on her desk, witness some operations, maybe watch the deaths of a D-class or two. Working in the Foundation for over 5 years, she thought she'd seen it all by now.

"That's it! I'm leaving!" The man stood up, grabbed his jacket, and slammed the apartment door on his way out.
"Daddy?" The 5-year-old Amy stared aimlessly at the wooden door, while her mother broke down into sobbing beside her.
"Daddy…"

"Careful with the scalpel, Rikard." Amy pointed with her suited hand to a massive irregular bulge protruding from the D-class's stomach wall. "You see that red line? Cut right there, and then cauterize the vessel." She watched as the new researcher to the biohazardous research team steadily cut away at the tumor that was once D-61293's stomach. She smiled as the new guy lifted the separated tumor from its growth place and placed it in a vat of formalin.
"Excellent work, Rikard. Sew up the incision in the stomach wall, and let's patch 'im up and call it a day." She shut the lid on the vat, and placed the unit on a conveyor belt that would take it to the pathologists working two blocks away. She took enjoyment from treating people of their pain, even if she injected them with the organism that she would have to take out of them eventually. Working at the Foundation gave her a sense of purpose.

15-year-old Amy held her elderly mother's hand as she slowly breathed. The cancer was eating her withered body, and the doctors could do nothing about it.
"You've always been a good, strong girl… don't let anyone take that away from you, my love." The elder Sze looked at her only child in her eyes, and smiled for the last time.
"I love you, Amy," she spoke, before closing her eyes. Amy couldn't hear herself crying over the flat, piercing tone of the ECG.

All afternoon, she continued to click away at her computer, trying to put together DNA sequences for some of the superviruses that the Foundation has recently acquired. She always wondered where the Foundation got such nasty ailments, but then thought to herself that she wasn't ready for the answer, and dropped that line of thought. She continued to work uninterrupted until her desk phone began to ring.
"Dr. Sze, please report to room D33 as soon as possible, thank you." The dry lady's tone was replaced with the dead line sound, and Amy put her phone back down before standing up. She really hated when people interrupted her from her work. She found herself most at-ease when working.

"Max, you're drunk!" Amy tried to push him away, but the much bigger guy pinned her to the wall.
"Oh, c'mon, babe," he replied with a slurred voice. "This will be fun, I promise."
She screamed and struggled, and no-one came to her rescue that night…

"… room D33, here it is." She looked at the conference chamber - it appeared empty, but she walked in anyways.
As soon as she walked in, the door sealed shut behind her, and the blinds automatically closed. Alarmed, she drew out her sidearm and crouched low near the door.
Within a few seconds, the lights turned back on, and she saw people and food. She saw a few familiar faces, including David Rosen from Tech. Research, Doctor Lucas Cave, and Alec Brickner.
"Amy," started Brickner, "you work way too hard. I knew you'd forget that today is your 34th birthday. Now, stop worrying for an hour, and enjoy." He lit a small candle on top of the cake, and stepped aside.
Amy smiled, and blew out that candle, wishing that the people that surrounded her now never left her side. In her whole life, she never had a real family until she joined the Foundation…

Amy placed the letter down on her nightstand, while she continued to pack her bags.
Working for a government project? Having her master's and her doctorate paid for? Working with the most advanced technology in the world? What more could she ask for?
She was mildly saddened that she would have to leave this apartment, which has been her home for many years…
… but, at this point, she had nothing left to lose. No friends, no parents, no job… she took her bags with her, and left her apartment.
Outside, a black towncar waited for her. As the attendant packed her bags into the storage compartment, she continued to read her orientation package.
If she could remember anything, she asked herself, she would rather remember this boring package, than the hell that she was forged through.
The towncar sped off into the distance, bringing her someplace new.


I stood nervously before the desk. Although I'd met the Intelligence Operations Regional Director once before, when I first transferred into the department, I'd never had to deliver a report to someone this high up the chain of command before. It was a less than pleasant experience.
Director Jameson looked up from the smart-phone she had been handling, turned it to face me, and said, "So, Agent Beard, please explain what I'm seeing here." On the screen of the phone was a large circles-and-arrows logo, with "Special Containment Protocols. How safe do you feel?" printed below it.
"Well, ma'am, I was looking for an app on my personal phone and decided to look up a few Foundation keywords as a joke. Unfortunately, as you can see, there actually was an app out there. At $14.99, it's more expensive than most apps, which we hope may have limited the number of people downloading it, but until we complete analysis of the involved databases, we won't know for certain how many copies are out there."
She placed the phone on the desk and steepled her fingers as she looked at me. "And how extensive is the breach?"
I held my hands behind my back, absently noticing that my palms were getting sweaty. "It contains heavily redacted protocols for about 450 items, mostly classified as Safe, and a couple of other internal documents, including a handful of personnel files." I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "One of them is an almost fully unexpunged file on Dr. Bright."
Director Jameson's brow furrowed slightly as she briefly closed her eyes and sighed heavily. "Can these files be traced to any given Site?"
"The most likely origin of the leak is the central data hub in-" The phone buzzed, interrupting me. Director Jameson picked it up, tapped the screen a couple of times, then slid it over to me.
There was an update to the app, advertising "37 new Items! New pictures for 17 old Items! UI upgrade! New submission form to report any Items you find out in the wild!"
Director Jameson's voice grew harsh and her eyes grew cold as she said, "Coordinate with Internal Security and locate the source of this leak. I don't care if you have to crash Apple's servers, but get that app off the market immediately and locate anyone who got a copy. I want a weekly summary on your progress. Dismissed."
I picked up the phone and left the room, glad that I wasn't getting blamed for the breach. Yet, anyway. And here I thought that transferring from field intel duty would be less stressful.


This letter is to anyone who remembers that one should always take care of their fellow man.
I'm stuck in this little room surrounded by a big layer of concrete. I usually can't open the door because it locks from the other side. Sometimes people leave the door opened and I leave, but when I try to get someone to help me, nobody will pay any attention to me. I can try hitting them, knocking their stuff over, screaming at them, but they'll just keep going about their business like I don't even exist. Sometimes I try to run away, but when I get outside my head starts hurting, and then I get really tired. When I go to sleep, I wake up back in that intolerable room, locked in and forgotten. Again.
Sometimes people come into my room. We talk, and they're usually very surprised to see me. They always promise to get me help. They take lots of notes and photos so they don't forget me, but they always do. Lately, it's been a bunch of scientists in lab coats. You would think that a scientist would have a better memory then those other guys who came before them, but they forget about me like all the rest.
If you find this letter, and you come into my room, please don't leave me in there. Take me with you so we can make people see me. Make them see I exist.
Please.
Why doesn't anyone remember me?


It was nearing the end of the witching hour, and most sensible folk were tucked away in bed, resting to face the new day. For the fourth (or was it the fifth? Sixth? It was hard to keep track) time that night, a cautious knock came on the bedroom door of one such couple, shattering the silence that had settled over the house. For a fourth time that night, a sleep-addled voice called out: “What do you need NOW?” and a small and wavering voice replied “Mommy!”
  “Your turn.” came a voice from underneath a mound of pillows and blankets.
  “A'ight. ‘m goin', hun.”
  The covers were tossed to the side, and a man in his late thirties disentangled himself and groped sightlessly for clothing. His fingers met a light switch, and the darkness was banished. The form under the blankets swore viciously and rolled over to block the light from unadjusted eyes.
  Click. Darkness again. “Hurry!” urged the small voice.
  “Hang on!” The man snapped, most of his good humor lost to the first few repetitions of the ritual. He felt around until his hands met the cool metal of the door knob.
  “What d-“
  A small girl launched into his stomach hard enough to send him stumbling back into the room.
“Sleepin' in here with you guys tonight, kay?”
  “No, not ok, kiddo. You have a perfectly nice big girl bed in your room. Mommy and Daddy's room is much too small for you and us. What's the matter?”
  “It's the monsters, Daddy!” She whispered, scanning the hallway as if one might be creeping up on them from the yawning maw of the stairwell.
  “Anna, there is no such thing. We've been over this, honey.”
  “Yu-huh! I can hear ‘em snufflin' around in there, growling and stuff. They're probably hungry!”
  Her father rolled his eyes. “I'll walk back with you.”
  “No! Wanna sleep here!”
  Her father scooped her up and carried her back down the hallway, ignoring her protests and kicking.
  “Lookit, nothing under the bed, inside the closet, outside the windows, or anywhere else. No monsters to be seen anywhere.
  “They can hide!”
  “Sweetheart, there is nowhere to hide in here. I checked every little nook and cranny. You're gonna have to believe me.” He scooped her bear off of the floor. “You two curl up under the covers and get some rest for me, ok? You're perfectly safe. Promise.” He shut the door gently and shambled back to his own room, sleep already overtaking him.
  “Is she ok?” his wife asked. “Maybe we should have let her sleep in here. Just this once.”
  “That's how bad habits get formed, you know. She needs to learn to beat these silly fears by herself.”
  “You're right, I suppose. But I do worry about her.” His wife's words fell on deaf ears. He was already snoring softly, a slab of dead weight leaning up against her.
  Anna cuddled deeper under her blanket. Her dad had said she was safe, but… Something still felt wrong. The gibbous moon outside cast odd shadows about her room, turning a doll into a grotesque alien being, a chair into a looming mouthful of teeth, ready to swallow up a little kid such as herself. She didn't like it a bit.
  And the sounds. She could still hear the deep, throaty gurgles, the snuffles, the growls. If anything, they had grown louder. She ducked her head under her covers and curled into a ball, hugging her knees. “Just a few hours until morning.” She whispered under her breath until it became like a silent mantra, over and over. “Only a few more hours. Only a few more.”
  The noises seemed to fill her world now. They were right at her ears, surrounding her. She sucked a panicked, sobbing breath in. She was beginning to get uncomfortably hot under the blankets. Her night gown was soaked with a mist of sweat and her bangs clung to her face. She could have sworn that by the second the heat was building,much more heat than her small body should have been able to generate. Her breath was coming faster, and she felt smothered by the heat. She kicked the blankets off, even though the noises still echoed all around her. Or, tried to. She hadn't remembered her father tucking her in quite so tight. In fact, the more she thrashed to get an arm or a leg free, the tighter it seemed to get. Yes, definitely. The blankets were tight against her chest and stomach now, and getting tighter still. She screamed for her parents as loud as her constricted lung capacity would allow.
  “That didn't sound like her normal scream.” Anna's mother said, bolting up in bed. “Go check on her!”
She didn't have to say it twice. The two of them hurried down the dark hallway to Anna's room.
  “Anna? Hun?”
  The room appeared to be empty. Anna's blanket lay perfectly neat, spread out on the floor. There was no sign of the little girl. The bed lay empty, the pillow and covers still soaked with sweat.
  Anna!” Her mother half shrieked half sobbed, as her father checked any spaces she could have hidden in. He reached down to pick up the blanket, and then recoiled. No, it couldn't have been. It was just exhaustion playing tricks on his mind, right? But no. he saw it again. The blanket moved.
  He felt the material writhe under his fingers, and he let out a hoarse cry.
  “What is it?” Her mother leapt around to face him. “What did you find?”
  The blanket was most definitely moving on its own. He felt it tighten in a nearly bone-shattering grip around his wrist. He could see it changing into something…. Else. Something almost human. His daughter's words echoed in his mind. “They can hide, daddy!”
  The blanket-thing was looming over him now, rapidly changing. He peddled his feet backwards, but still the grip did not loosen. He felt something in his wrist pop. And at that moment, his eyes fell on his daughter's blanket, the real one, neatly folded at the foot of her bed, where it had been placed the previous morning.
 And on the bed were a few pink scraps, splattered with something red. Scraps of a pink night gown.


BODY once told me

The following document was mailed to Agent Green's father, with instructions to forward it to his son, along with the message "Hast wir eine Gecoolen yet?". The sender has not been identified.

A stock image.

Item #: Fire officials say at least 8 injured as vehicle hits students outside California high school.
Object Class: A squeeze play that works two ways.
Special Containment Procedures: Md., Va. motorists warned to stay away if possible from Wilson Bridge this weekend. The Root DC Live : Things to do May 24 to June 7. UK Supreme Court backs extradition of WikiLeaks chief. UN rights council to hold special session Friday on Syrian massacre in Houla.
Description: Police in both parts of Ireland launch crackdown on prostitution, raid brothels islandwide. Capital Weather Gang : Oklahoma City pounded by severe weather Tuesday, and more on the way today. Resolution praising feds has bleak future. What California's lieutenant governor thinks of Project Glass after trying them on. Chen Guangcheng, now in U.S., poised to play role in yet another abortion debate.
Cook's scoreless streak ends with Morneau's tying double in 8th; Twins take down A's 5-4. Logmill Road project, site of fatalities, is delayed. Capital Buzz: Parature's former chief executive reprises role. Past Romney critics praise his jobs record on Sunday talk shows. French Open's defending champion, Li Na of China, adjusts to new status as title holder. A quiz on 'Coppelia,' presented by the Bolshoi Ballet at the Kennedy Center.
The high cost of savings.
Addendum: ‘More politics than faith' in bishops' religious freedom campaign? To fast or not? London Olympics forcing Muslim athletes to consider delaying Ramadan fast. Missile Defense! Where should they put the East Coast site? (A Loop contest). Who will invent the future?

I'm almost positive they're just fucking with us.- Dr. Carlisle