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Fuzzbutt, the magical cat butt that walked on its own, struggled in Veronica's grasp; this was normal for her, as it was with most animals, and hadn't changed in the six or so years in which Fuzzbutt had lived with Brad, Tito, and every other pet that came and went through the house of Brad Lee1 Cameron.
To her credit, Veronica was used to dealing with weird animals, or that which could be reasonably called "animals".
Today, of course, was a special day, being the photoshoot day for David Cameron Fucked a Dead Pig's cover. Thankfully, Brad had scheduled a phenomenal one day before it was supposed to drop to actually shoot the cover, so Veronica totally had time to shepherd around his weirdo pets. This was especially true when his pets loved photobombing album shoots, and needed to be put in the bathroom for Crimes Against ""Art"".
Still, cat butts thankfully don't meow like crazy when dumped into the bathroom. Shame that tidbit lacked real-life application outside Brad's house. The exercise in anomalous absurdity that came with transporting a half-cat to the naughty cat jail did at least give one Veronica Fitzroy time for her last look-over before she was immortalized in her own folly.
The mirror was tacky, as per most things in Brad's house, but it serviced well enough. The half shave, dyed blue, probably screamed "attention whore" a bit too loud, but it wasn't like she was an electro-swing artist or something. Her makeup was… smudged was one way to put it. Tutorials never seemed to help her all that much. Her jaw, while thankfully smooth, was…
Veronica remembered that she hated mirrors.
Sighing, Veronica made her way back to the dining room.
For a thirty-six-year-old man who lived alone (with the exception of his exotic pets), Brad's house was surprisingly… well, Veronica wouldn't exactly use the word "clean", but he did do his share in removing dust and grime. She'll admit that she wished he'd actually organize his things, although she's not sure how much stayed in one place, or even liked to be touched. Still, his pets looked happy-at least, for things without faces. Veronica wasn't sure on shoggoth physiology, or whatever she was supposed to call a crawling ball of tendrils.
As Veronica looked out a window to the front yard, she felt it hard to imagine that Brad had it best out of all of them. Two-bedroom in a good neighborhood, stable career path, and hey, CIA had yet to spook him…
… of course, unless she's hallucinating, that might've changed.
Someone-or something, perhaps-was standing at the door. It was a bit hard to see from this window, but they looked like someone in a fancy coat, which was odd considering she's pretty sure they hadn't signed onto anything fancier than a licensing deal. Maybe some glam rock friend from Izzy's Hydrocide Sisters days, here to once again delay the photoshoot.
Manning the door, Veronica peaked through the eyehole and came eye to… wait.
All she saw was bandages.
"What are you-" Veronica sighed, and began speaking clearly: "I am going to open the door, but that is not an invitation for you to barge in."
The Man in Bandages almost seemed to slouch as Veronica opened the door. "Lord, I hate invitational wards. How'm I supposed to be taking houses call if the patient can't get up? Do I gotta use a phone? AT&T don't exactly sell to somethin' like me."
"That's funny, cause you're still not invited." Veronica did a quick look-over as she leaned against the doorframe. As with five years ago, the Bandaged Man's skin was completely covered, head to toe, in pristine bandages, with not a single bit of skin to show for error. This was, of course, in addition to the glittery pink suit that somehow put her merry band of queers to straight shame, an impressive feat for an entity that almost certainly had no concept of gender or sexuality, all of which framed a frame that couldn't be 20 pounds over a starving human's. "We're shooting an album cover and I'm pretty sure none of us want to sell our souls, so get lost."
Bandages's chuckle was the kind that made one either want to strangle the smug little bastard or nervously chuckle back; Veronica knew enough not to do either. "Is that how you treat a friend of four and a half years, Nicky?"
"Exactly five people get to call me that. You're not one of them." Veronica straightened back up, making sure not to accidentally make any sort of inopportune body language. "Also, yes, that's how I treat someone who I met exactly once. Especially after they dig up my criminal record to try and sell me shit."
"Puh-leeeeeeeeease, Nicky-"
"Veronica."
"-you're still freaked out by that? Have I done somethin' wrong since?"
Veronica shifted to lean against the far doorframe. "I'm going to assume the answer is yes."
"I'm just a simple sinner, after all. But I ain't here to screw y'all over, nah. I'm just here on… business." Bandages leaned in, and a cool summer breeze followed. "As usual."
Veronica furrowed her brow. "We don't have business with you. Not at this hour, and unless Janice Raymond, Ted Nugent, and my dad all discover immortality at the same time, probably not ever."
"Funny you say that, I-"
"No." Growing up, Veronica rarely got the chance to interrupt boring men like this. It was almost intoxicating when she wasn't worrying about accidentally stepping off the ward boundaries. "We don't fuck with labels. You're bigger than a label. Screw off."
Frustratingly, Bandages was doing the exact opposite of screwing off, taking a half-step closer to the door that both of them knew perfectly well was off-limits. Veronica never quite realized it before, but the thing had a perfectly shaped neck for wringing. "Come off it. I ain't askin' y'all tokers if you wanna head out for a spot of cigars. I'm just mannin' a storefront."
Veronica seriously needed a pack of gum right now. "Take no for an answer, for the love of g-d."
Another step towards the house. "You know." A tilt of the head. "I think you'd do well to…" A brush of his hand ag-

Veronica's knuckles roared with pain as they met Bandages's face(?), but the sight of Bandages falling back onto his ass(?) was good enough for her, as was the sound of actual discomfort from the fucking demon.
Even still, it was only a matter of moments before Bandages picked himself back up and dusted his suit off (a shame, grass-stains and dirt were a good look on creeps). "Huh."
"Get out."
Bandages looked right at Veronica; even with the ruffled bandages, little more could be ascertained. "You'll regret that."
"No I won't."
"Suit yourself." And, fucking finally, Bandages was gone. If only that worked for literally anything else, life would be so much easier.
Veronica sighed, coming back inside to Fuzzbutt, now out of gay baby jail, running in circles trying not to get eaten by Tito the shoggoth. Great.
Veronica scooped the poor cat up and headed back to imprison her.

About halfway back to the only properly shoggoth-proofed bathroom, Veronica's phone began blaring the opening riff of Omotenashi, which probably meant Ashy wanted to talk. As it turned out, holding a cat and fishing your phone out of your jeans was harder than it looked. Still, Veronica was a strong girl, she could hold Fuzzbutt just fi-no, wait, out of her grasp.
As Fuzzbutt disappeared under a pile of living-room junk, Veronica sighed into the phone. "Hey, Ashy. Something up?"
"Babe, that drumming?" Veronica resisted interrupting Ashton with a grunt of pain as her finger pricked whatever dumb cult shit Brad left laying around for cats to hide in. "Tight. Kickin' solo, too." For a second, Veronica was certain she'd caught the little rascal; she'd only caught claw marks, however. "That's the closer, right? Can't wait for Dead Pig."
"Oh, the show. Thanks. I mean, me personally, I feel like Jack could've played better." Fuzzbutt suddenly darted out of the pile, only to hide under another pile in the nearby study. "Shit… sorry, cat's giving me trouble."
"S'cool."
"Well, anyways, I felt like he was distracted." Veronica made sure to close the doors of the study before rummaging once more through the occult garbage. "Plus, amusing as performance art is, I'm not sure that's in the HoS playbook. We're not exactly trying to be capital C Cool, yet… I dunno, maybe Izzy is." She's pretty sure she just touched something that giggled, but it had the texture of tanned flesh, which meant it wasn't a cat and therefore not important. "I mean, don't get me wrong. That was a neat show, props to her. But we're not art rockers."
"Really? After Barcelona?" Ashton chuckled, which briefly lifted Veronica's spirits, at least. "Seriously. Shit's cool."
"Hey, dumb shit does not a performance art make." By the time Veronica finally caught Fuzzbutt, her arm was scratched almost as hard as it was after Hartly… christ, she needed to invest in better mindfulness techniques. "Anyways, I gotta put the cat in time out. See you at the party."
"Later, babe. See you at the party."

None of the three at the table (plus the one at the camera) noticed her come into the dining room. "G-d, I hate mailmen."
Brad (Izzy and Sara were too busy chattering off last night's high, and Jack was either fiddling with his phone under the table or jacking off) looked up from his cheap camera setup with half a grimace. "Fuck, they can find this place? What the fuck am I warding for?"
"Beats me. Said he's here on business." Veronica took her uncomfortable wooden seat in stride. "You doing business with criminals again?"
"Fuckin' hope not. Got outta that shit early." Of course, as soon as Veronica entered the picture, Brad had to refiddle with the setup. Was it that hard to take a picture of four people and a stuffed pig?
Against her better judgement, she spared a side-eye towards Jack.
Thankfully, Jack still had his pants done up, although whatever he was fiddling with was out of both their sights. Could've fooled her, how intent he was looking just a few moments ago. Probably some fidget toy. Was he nervous? He looked good enough for the photo, and it wasn't like they were stage idols.
For a brief moment, Jack's eyes met Veronica's, and Jack recoiled. Odd fellow, as usual.
"I'm surprised, Veronica. I'd thought cuz was better with mailmen."
Izzy had broken away from Sara long enough to give Veronica a smirk that, while not quite smug, was still twisted by the muscle memory of a million smug grins. It came with being Izzy, Veronica supposed.
Veronica smirked back. "You know Brad. He probably left a backdoor for his latest toy."
"That's what Sara thinks. Granted, she's been spending an awful lot of time on that Jericho project of…" It was always fun seeing Izzy's smirk degenerate into a doofy grin. "My, she really did name it after that awful Christian movie."
"Damn straight." Sara leaned back to look at Veronica, and nearly tipped her and her chair onto the floor. "I am gonna REMIND this world that it birthed that. Any-" She wasn't quite so lucky on the way back, as the sound of her chair smacking tile enthusiastically attested, but that was hardly a novel development in the story of Sara Miriam Yarkoni.
"That looks like it hurt." Said the pig.
Wait, no.
Veronica turned back to face Brad, still struggling with the camera and tripod and not quite struggling with the fact that their prop just talked. "Yo, why's the prop talking?"
"Cause he's actually fuckin' still." Well, that didn't answer her question, though in retrospect talking pigs weren't exactly that far out. Nine and a half years right outside the BackDoor and your definition of normal stops carrying weight. "Right, pick a pose and stick with it, I'm paying by the fuckin' hour and I ain't made of gold."
Sara's ascent from her throne of shame atop the floor was accompanied by a myriad of squeaks, not the least of which being her speaking voice. "Cool, cool." Like she hadn't just eaten dirt; same old Sara. "So, uh, just pick a pose?"
"I ain't looking to make you break your fuckin' kosher, Mips." Right, pose. Reaching for meat? Fuck, hope this thing didn't feel pain.
"I dunno, like… what do I do, then? I mean, meat's one thing, but pork? Living pork? That's-"

Item: ███-B
Description: ███-B is the only known photograph of SCP-███ that predates containment by the Foundation. Item ███-B functions as the cover art for David Cameron Fucked a Dead Pig, an album released by American math rock band "House of Spades" in 2016.
Item ███-B depicts a cluttered dining room scene, attended by the four members of House of Spades, wearing custom tank tops containing fragments of the album's title. Each member is seated facing the camera, in such a way that their apparel, when read left to right, reads "David Cameron Fucked a Dead Pig". SCP-███ appears to serve as the main course, lying on the table with an apple in its mouth.
PoI-9521 "Jack Spade" sits at the far right end, wearing a top labelled "a Dead Pig". Spade is depicted tearing into a large chunk of meat on his plate, using only his hands. This act is seemingly assisted by bladed suckers emerging from his palm and fingertips. [REDACTED]
█-███ (given name "Veronica Fitzroy") sits to the left of Jack, wearing a top labelled "Fucked". Fitzroy is depicted calmly slicing a slab of meat from SCP-███.

Unlike the other two, PoI-9522 "Isabella Kawajiri" and PoI-9522-D "Sara Yarkoni" are shown interacting with one another, wearing "Cameron" and "David" tops, respectively. While Yarkoni shies away from the plates, Kawajiri delivers a kiss on her cheek.

Jack of Spades looked at the photo, and tried not to think about the things he always thought when he saw another fuckspawn human during a dry spell.
He looked at Nicky, how she looked really good in that top and god he should have ripped her out of her. He looked at Izz, and thought about how it was such a shame that she she seemed really excited about Sara and honestly who wouldn't want to take, which Jack thought was nice as he ignored the gaping pit in his "stomach". Finally, he looked at Sara and remembered how nice it was clinging to and unconsciously grabbed for that malfunctioning crescent of wood in his back pocket.
"Jack? You still awake?"
Bradley's rough voice which would sound great moaning in fucking pleasure shook Jack out of his focus, probably for the best. "Oh! Uh, yeah, sorry it's just, you know, I'm nocturnal, all that jazz, and… you know, I really can't get out of my head how, er… yeah."
Jack didn't really look at clocks (they were a bit new to him, and mostly useless), but by the look of the exhausted Bradley that stumbled into the hallway, clad only in boxers and pompadour consumed by bedhead and my god how he was just, he'd passed the point where a responsible human being should have went to sleep. Emphasis "responsible" and "human".
"Yeah, uh, fuckin'… you're ready to blow, aren'tcha?" Brad yawned, and the myriad of tendrils under Jack's skin invisibly squirmed at the thought of making passionate fucking love with implications that Jack wasn't wanted as usual you fucking predator. "Go to a bar or somethin'. I got legwork at eight."
Whatever. Someone else. As usual.
Or you could stop being such a coward.
"Teeth" biting his "lip" and beak biting his "trachea", Jack turned around and walked out of Brad's house.
Coward.
Even in the summer, Staten Island nights were inhumanly cold. Not as cold as King liked them, no, but not quite so comfortable wearing skin. It'd be warmer if you just fucked Besides, this was a dry cold. Either way, the dead streets, dim streetlamps, and quiet houses were a far cry from any self-respecting blooded creature's let alone a fucking apex comfort zones.
Maybe he'd do better in the city. Again.
As Jack made his way down the-
"Hi there, Jack. How long's it been, two years?"
Jack froze.
"Turn around! I only got so much time for clients."
A jolt of cold lightning shot down his "spine" as Jack realized that he didn't immediately want to fuck the source of the voice.

Baptism of the Wandering Jew by Johnny the Son

TAPE 2

Beef Albini in Fusion Sauce with a Side of Fruit

Footnotes
1. What a name, huh?


A big, red "F."
That's what it said on Lucas's test. Lucas was miserable, not because of the grade, but, because of what would happen when he showed his mother.
After school, Lucas decided he would take the long way home. Sometimes he could sneak on the bus or ask his friend's mom for a ride, but whenever he felt down he walked through the forest.

He looked up while walking and saw the great canopy of the trees providing shade to all life below. The trees bent and curved in such a way that the entire preserve was covered in a shell of leaves and everything within was completely protected.
Lucas walked on logs and picked up sticks, all the while the "F" in his bag wore him down. Getting through the preserve would usually take around 20 minutes but today he wanted to stay a little longer.
Lucas was going further into the forest and the grasses were growing thicker. He rarely went this way because of the danger. But today, he just felt different.
He decided to head back around the dense forest but, unexpectedly, he heard a groan. Not a scary animal groan or a grunt, but a sad, pitiful one.
He followed it and upon a clearing, he found a small shack. Light shone from the door frame.
A voice came from the shack, "Hello, child. What are you doing out in the forest alone?"
Lucas started to back up.
"Ah, don't worry. I mean no harm. I'm just a tradesman. I just need one small thing and I can grant you any wish."
Lucas stopped and turned his head. He thought that maybe he could get out of trouble. To face his mother, to show her the grade, to face the consequences, all were of such concern to Lucas that he decided to listen further.
"What would you like, child? Ask anything of me."
Lucas slowly tiptoed to the corners of the door frame and whispered in his desire. As he spoke, he looked into the thin slits at the side of the door and saw furniture.
"I see, as you crave it, so shall it be. But I also request something from you."
Its voice invaded Lucas's mind. The deal was struck and Lucas obeyed.

The night was quiet. The only sound pervading the forest was Lucas's panting as he ran to the clearing.
Lucas traveled in the dark, there were no stars tonight. The canopy, once a beacon of comfort, blocked the shine of the moon. A prison of leaves swerved and danced across the sky taunting the boy.
He made it back to the clearing. But unlike the rest of the translucent forest which seemed to blur in the night, the clearing was glassy. With an ambient light permeating from the grassy ground, Lucas's mind became clear and his fear of the darkness fled.
"Have you brought the item, child?"
Lucas nodded and came forth.
"Slip it under the door!"
Lucas took the item out of his pocket and tried to squeeze it under the narrow slit of the rotted wood.
The shack started to convulse and the leaves of the trees shook as the wind picked up.
"Yes, child. Just give it to me and reality is yours!"
Lucas opened the foil wrapping on the Pop-Tart and took out one pastry and stuck it under the door.
"Thank you, dear boy. Your wish has been granted."
Lucas sat down in the grass and ate the other Pop-Tart.

In Lucas's room, the big, red "F" transformed into a big, red "A."


❀✿❁

~❀~

For one day the Foundation opened its doors, allowing all the nonviolent anomalies in their care to roam free. The masses of orange-clad D-Class subjects in their ward were similarly freed. Drinks were shared among the top brass of senior staff. Doctors Clef and Kondraki made amends, Doctor Gears smiled, and the Administrator held a celebratory speech.

~✿~

The GOC laid down their weapons, their war against the supernatural was finally over. Governments and their anomalous branches shut down for an international day of rest. Anderson Robotics and Prometheus Labs simultaneously announced their closure. The Master Foreman released all of his workers.
Deer College shut its doors, declaring an impromptu vacation. The cozy fireplaces of the Marshall, Carter, and Dark London lounge were long extinguished, having no one to tend to them. A father and his estranged daughter hugged one last time within the main office of the Wilson Center. A practitioner of whimsy looked out of the window of their workshop, delighting in the warm day's embrace.

~❁~

The world had gone beautiful, but just for a day. The following morning there would be nothing left of the pale blue dot and its people. Nothing but a single probe aimlessly floating in the void, playing its mournful tune.

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Ode To The Unknown Author •


Joshua closed the front door behind him and kicked his shoes off on the tile foyer. Sprinting to his room with his new treasures bundled in a cloth kerchief, he paused only to quickly scratch an excited brown pitbull between her ears.
"C'mon, girl, let's go check these out."
The dog shot past him, jumping up onto his bed, her rump excited and airborne, tail whipping to and fro like an elastic metronome. Shutting his door with a familiar 'click', he joined her on the bed, wrestling her down and rubbing her belly.
Once she had settled down, Joshua laid out his treasures before him, admiring them. A fragrant geranium, half of a sandalwood-scented candle, and a discarded, empty box of surgical gloves.
"Which one first, sweetie?" he asked her, watching as the dog sniffed her way through his prizes. She seemed to like the smell of the flower. He gently picked it up, bringing it to his nose. Giving it a single, slow, determined sniff, he let his mind wander for several moments. Eventually he tossed it aside.
"Nah, nothin'." His dog watched the flower descend gracefully back down to the bed just as he snatched up the half candlestick. "Let's see about this one…" The candle came to his nose, another long, thoughtful sniff.
Moments later the candle tumbled dejectedly back down, accompanied by the boy's morose sigh. "Seems like not a very good haul today, baby." He sounded hopeless as he idly scratched her rump. "Well, last one."
His dog watched as he brought the empty box to his nose. Watched as he inhaled pensively. Watched as he sat there, still as stone, until soon, he started trembling. She saw the tears well up in his eyes, heard his choked attempts to hold them back.
She wasted no time, standing and nudging the offending box away from him, planting a sloppy, wet kiss on his teary-eyed face.
Joshua tried and failed to stop crying, wrapping his arms around her as she licked away his tears. He didn't even know why, as he sat, overwhelmed with a crushing sense of loss and guilt which he couldn't, try as he might, properly identify.
Hugging his dog well into the evening, Joshua knew only one thing. He missed his dad.


"Alright that's a wrap! Time for lunch. You all can pick up your meal vouchers from the sound crew. Catering should be ready by now." He pointed towards one of the crewmembers, "Terry, can you get these sheets washed and grab new ones for the next scene? Thanks."
The director shuffled out of his seat as the cast members and crew shuffled off the set, which was merely a semi-secluded Airbnb for the weekend. The place was decent for what they needed for shots. A washer and dryer, lots of open floor space, spare linens, but had an atrocious green wallpaper in the bedroom. Victor did not have a very significant career in his 16 years of directing porn. The internet pretty much flooded the market and like all directors, slash producers, slash actors, slash web masters of the porn industry he had to try to strike in a very niche fetish to peddle around as paid content.
Really, the trick nowadays was to find the next big thing and ride the gravy train as long as possible. Whether it was some new fetish or actor or different media, people will pay through the nose on content that enhances their little play sessions in ways they weren't even aware of. Then it was just a matter of having a monopoly on that content for as long as possible. Victor longed to set that next trend and has had some moderate success blending in his work with a sci-fi theme. Although he was still kicking himself over not pursuing POV stuff when he thought of it back in 2007.
He was the last out of the house as people lined up by the table serving greasy tacos. He pulled out his phone to text his partner.

Just wrapped scene 5. We'll get ready and do the finale after lunch. You'll be around to edit everything tomorrow right?

He put the phone down, grabbed a paper plate, and stood in line. In front of him was a tall brunette woman wearing a latex miniskirt and tube top. Although attractive, her figure was not what grabbed Victor's attention but the fact that her paper plate was about to fold from the sheer weight of soggy beef and pork enchiladas she was piling on. All topped with a hefty dollop of sour cream.
"You, uh… you know you don't need to do that."
The woman turned around with a confused look. "Do what now?"
"Eat all that and then… you know… " Victor motioned by putting his index finger in his mouth.
Her brows furrowed a little as she deposited a handful of dollars into the catering tip jar. "I'm not bulimic."
He nodded calmly. "I direct porn. I don't judge. I'm just saying you don't need to. You look great."
She crooked her expression and made path towards an empty folding chair. "I just have a big appetite, excuse me." She sat down with her plate on her lap, but wobbled a little as one of the chair legs suddenly buckled inward very slightly. These were just cheap chairs that the caterer provided afterall.
Now Victor felt bad. He didn't have many feelings left, but guilt was one he couldn't drop easily. He sighed and took the seat next to her. "I'm very sorry. I'm a jerk. I meant no insult. Actually I'll be really impressed if you can put all that away and still do the next scene without burping."
She chuckled a little with her mouth full. After swallowing and dabbing the grease from her lips, she introduced herself. "I'm Jessica."
"Victor. I have to say I have met most of the actresses in the Quebec area. You new?"
"More or less. I'm not from here originally."
Victor nodded and ate one of his two chicken tacos. He looked at her plate and noticed that Mt. Slop was already half eaten. Victor's curiosity about this woman continued into his third bite, "Have you been working long?"
She swallowed again before speaking, "This is actually my first time on video. I thought I would be nervous but the cast has been really nice to me."
Victor looked at the other crew and cast members at an adjacent table. "I know most of them and they are a good bunch. I think Damien referred you right?"
By now, she was cleaning up her plate and looking at the line for seconds. "He and I are good friends now. I was worried about him for a while, but he seems to be doing real well since we met."
"Yeah… I have noticed that he's… well… a lot better. He doesn't look tired or irritable. And he's wearing short sleeves. That's a good sign I'd say. Honestly, I can't tell you how many times I had to talk to him about his drug use. Whatever you're doing for him, keep it up."
"I just listened to him. Excuse me." And with that she got up for seconds. Victor was a little taken back about how such a sweet woman wound up working on his set. It was rare to find but not unheard of. Actually, it was rather refreshing, he thought.
An hour passed and the crew was set up for the final scene. Jessica was to co-star with Damien in this one. They both walked away from the elderly woman in charge of makeup and hair, sat on the bed, and awaited for instructions while dressed in their respective costumes.
"Damien, Jessica. You only have a few lines, but I want Jessica to take charge in the beginning of this scene. That alright?"
They both nodded, then looked at each other and smiled. Victor slouched in his chair next to the camera man and nodded back. "Ok then. Roll. Action."
The scene played out as expected. There were some minor lines of dialogue before the action started. Victor took note that they had a good chemistry on set. Still he could not let go of the urge to micro-manage the scene from his chair. "Little more tongue, Damien."
It was at this moment that he heard the faint rattle of camera equipment next to him. Victor looked over and noticed that his camera man's hand was shaking and he was sweating bullets. He leaned in to whisper sternly. "What's the matter with you? You having a stroke? Quit fucking up the shot."
The camera man regained his composure and tried to speak, but no words. Victor glanced back at the set. "Damien, you don't need to suck, it's making too much noise. On second thought just keep doing what you're doing, we'll edit it out. Jessica, can you get a little more… yeah that's it. Hold him down. Higher please? Yes, perfect."
The camera man's words finally crawled out of his throat. "I-I-I-I d-don't know what's g-g-going on, Vic." Victor, clearly annoyed and bordering on pissed, looked back at him. "Just film the fucking shot, Walter. Don't get squeamish on me."
Walter looked back into the camera and mumbled. "…holy mother of god…"
Victor pulled the camera away from Walter. "Just go outside. I'll shoot." Walter simply nodded, looked at Jessica, and sulked out the door. Victor tried to think clearly over the howling moans on set. He took a deep breath and got back to work, pushing the tripod a little closer. "Sorry about that, both of you just keep going. Damien, the nipples… there you go. Looks great."
Victor looked at the camera to make sure his angle was right, but when he looked at the small LCD screen, the blood from his face suddenly drained out. Several times, he had to look at the camera screen and then back at Jessica. A few times she even looked back to make eye contact with him. Victor was frozen with a rush of haunting and confusing emotions. The oblivious cast and crew looked around confused, expecting a cue from their director. The other two actors stood offset in their costumes and tried to motion towards him. "Vic, is it our time to come in or…"
"Shut up, Alex!" He barked back. Victor knew an opportunity when he saw one and he wasn't about to let another slip out of his hands. He sat there silently for the next twenty minutes filming the scene.
When they finished, the cast and crew looked back at Victor. His face was pale and he sat in shock for a good ten seconds before speaking. "Y-yeah. That's a wrap for today. We'll end early." Before anyone had a chance to put underwear back on, he was out the door with the camera and tripod. A brisk walk to his car later he whipped out the SD card to the camera and opened up his laptop to write a quick email.

From: Fournier, Victor (CAN) <FournierV@strangerproductions.com>
Sent: Wednesday, March 03, 2010 1:41 PM
To: Bailey, Christopher (US) <BaileyC@strangerproductions.com>
Subject: Get this to editing ASAP

Dude, I have some amazing footage! Don't ask how I shot it. Just start editing it and get it on the website, I'll explain later after the flight. DON'T TELL ANYONE!

Attachments (1): Green Wallpaper Sex Tape.mpeg


by Captain Kirby

Jessica crossed off February 28th, 2019 on her calendar. She couldn't help but smile a little. Two months off the grid. Alex and Cindy thought she was joking at first, but Jessica had just quit her job at Google, and her parents owned a small cabin in Montana they used as a vacation home. It was the perfect opportunity to get away.
Two months ago, Jessica felt anxious whenever she checked her phone. Or her email. Or turned on the TV. Her body would tense up, bracing for the bad news. It was always bad news. Even the good news was bad news, since it meant there was more news.
She prepared a breakfast of beef jerky and eggs. She cooked the eggs over a self-made fire using the wood she'd chopped the other day.
After she finished her meal, Jessica went back to the bedroom. She kept her laptop and phone in a safe next to the nightstand. Her smile widened a little more. After so long away, Jessica was looking forward to reading messages again.
I wonder how everyone is doing?

You Have 18 Unread Messages

No New Messages

Cindy (1/29/2019): I know you're off the grid but the news has me worried. It's stupid I know, but I just want to make sure you're ok. Please, call me when you can.

Jessica froze.

Cindy (1/30/2019): I want to talk to you. Call me.

Alex (1/30/2019): I told Cindy not to text you. You probably don't want to hear about this prophecy bullshit anyways.

Mom (2/2/2019): I know you haven't attended mass for years, but could you pray before you go to sleep tonight? It would put your father and I at ease.

Her brain entered overload.

Mom (2/3/2019): Did you pray last night?

Alex (2/5/2019): Someone looted your apartment last night. I'm so sorry. You can crash at my place when you come back, if you want.

Mom (2/6/2019): Your dad and I just want you to be saved.

Cindy (2/9/2019): COME BACK ALREADY! WE STILL NEED TO GO ON ANOTHER HIKE TOGETHER!

All the anxiety, the intensity, the stress.

Alex (2/11/2019): I miss you.

Mom (2/15/2019): You were always one of the unsaved.

Cindy (2/17/2019): My brother hung himself. I got his weed stash. I'll save some for when you get back.

It came back, all at once.

Cindy (2/19/2019): I'm having an orgy at my place this weekend if you're interested.

Alex (2/20/2019): I always loved you. I'm going to propose when you get back.

Building pressure inside her head.

Cindy (2/22/2019): I fucked Alex for you last night.

Cindy (2/23/2019): I buried Alex for you this morning.

Pushing. Pushing.

Mom (2/25/2019): I should've aborted you.

Cindy (2/26/2019): I ran out of weed.

About to burst.

Dad (Today): If you see Jesus on the Judgement Day, tell him I'm sorry for my sins.

Jessica relieved the pressure by putting an axe through her head.


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NAME OF TALE The Silent Itch of a Missing Leg

All day, she'd stare at the wall.
Zachary had never told her what he did, and she still didn't know. The police had returned to her with increasingly uncomfortable looks on their faces, like they were scared, and then they regretfully closed their investigation. Some more men, whom she didn't know, had come round to her house, but she didn't remember very much about that. Life just seemed to be an endless parade of men telling her that they were very sorry but that they knew best and she should just forget about him.
He wasn't dead. She was sure of that. He wasn't the kind of person who'd just die. She had dreams about him, sometimes; he'd stand there, trying to say something, failing. Then he'd smile, and chuckle, and she'd wake up trying not to cry.
She knew all the cliches about what people are meant to feel; that they turn to someone and they're not there, or that they start talking, or that the house feels empty, but she didn't get any of that. There was just this constant, growing, gnawing sense like she'd fallen out of a train, or like the scene of a play had ended but her character was still on the stage. It wasn't right.
More men came to the house. They seemed increasingly intense. They wanted to know something, but she couldn't remember what. There was a problem, or a mystery. They were very interested in her dreams, but one of them later told her it was a dead end. "But he's not dead", she wanted to say, but she never did. Their expressions were wild. She didn't really do wild.
Claire and Simone took her out drinking. They'd half-ironically, half-sincerely make the kind of comments, cheers, sarcastic jibes you'd see among women in second-rate romcoms. But they were just moments, designed to be seen as natural but feeling like a ritual. All she wanted to do was go home, turn off all the sound and noise, and listen to the rushing of cars.
Everyone urged her to move on. Nobody wanted her to remember him. He's dead, he's a liar, probably has a second family in the North, we're all so sorry, it must be really hard for you, please stop looking at the wall, my condolences, sympathies, don't you think it's time you should be moving on now, get out there, see what the scene is like, you can't stay here forever, he wouldn't want you to act like this, come on now, come on, stop staring at the fucking-
He'd never smiled properly. He'd always just twitched the corner of his mouth up, like an inside joke.
She'd place her face to the wall, and almost, almost feel him. She didn't know where he was. She didn't know what the hell he was doing, but she knew, she knew, that he was thinking of her.
She'd never see him again.
At night, she could almost hear him whisper.


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"Owie! It burnssss!" The eight-year old Anthony whined as Josephine rubbed the aloe vera ointment into the burned, red skin on his back. "Grandma, it hurts!"
She grunted. "Well, maybe if you'd have put on some sunscreen, then this wouldn't have happened, hmm?"
"But I did!"
"Hm. Well, you're lucky I love you a lot…"
"Well—" Anthony winced, feeling the piercing sensation of the gel. "Thank you…"
Josephine paused for a moment before chuckling quietly. "Well, you should know that I'll always be here to take care of you. Just take care of me when I'm an old wrinkleton too, heh!"
Anthony laughed, a smile breaking through his distressed frown. "Of course I will, Grandma!"

"Josephine?"
"…"
"Josephine? It's time for your medicine."
The ninety-three year old woman looked up, a warm smile spreading across her wrinkled face. "Ah, Stephanie. I'm so glad I could see you again…"
The nurse in front of her stepped closer. "I'm Nina, remember? Stephanie is your daughter."
The woman clasped her hands together, leaning forward in her chair. "Oh… I—" Suddenly, she burst into a violent cough, her lungs heaving. Nina ran over, setting down a cup filled with an assortment of pills, supporting Josephine as she wheezed.
She panted for a moment, every breath jagged, like repeated jabs to her fragile body. Her breathing slowed, and the nurse kneeled down, checking on her.
Their eyes met.
"Stephanie! I didn't know you were coming."

Josephine sat in her uncomfortable, lumpy bed, the coughing now incessant as she descended into dry-heaving, which echoed throughout the lonely nursing home.
But, in an instant, it stopped, and she felt… Warm.
She turned, looking over to the chair beside her. On it sat a solemn man, and— despite her poor vision— she recognized him.
"Anthony." A tear trickled down her cheek. "I thought that you couldn't visit anymore…"
The man stayed silent, reaching into the pocket of his grey suit, where he pulled out a pack of cigarettes.
Josephine— despite the strange flourishing feeling pulling her down like a peaceful heaviness on her body— found the strength to yell. "Anthony! You told me you quit those years ago!"
He paused, then tucked them back away. Standing, the man looked down at her.
"I'm so glad you're here—" The man leaned down, placing a finger on her lips.
She felt a sudden wave of tranquility, intensifying as she stared into the man's quiet eyes.
"I… I know," she whispered, only hearing her slow, controlled breathing as the man carefully held onto her hand, gripping it tightly.
Her eyes weakened, softly closing. Memories slowly bubbled up into her mind as it dipped further into a gentle aura of serenity.
A chill rang throughout the world as Josephine's soul floated from her lifeless body. The man watched as she danced around him, free from her stiff, limiting vessel. She hugged him, then turned, running off to the afterlife.
The man stood still for a moment.

He smiled, then disappeared.

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Ellie3 (Gimmick Free!) •


Florence continued stalking through the back alleys of Detroit, hunting for demons. Just like old times. Albeit, Minneapolis had never been quite as decrepit as Detroit was now.

Florence attempts to stop the Volcano on Heimaey from erupting.

« Finding A Scalpel || HUB || All Skippers Are Bastards »

From
Julian Corwin (Director, Site-246)

Subject
RE: The Nightingale Contingency

To
Cody Westbrook (Commander, MTF Delta-3 "Solomon's Hand")

Agent Westbrook,
The Ethics Committee and the Overseer Council are aware of your concerns. They have been dismissed. Your orders still stand.
By your own admission, Agent Elsinger's abilities have matured to such a point that it would now be difficult or impossible for the remaining members of Delta-3 to enact containment contingency measures against her. This makes her exceptionally dangerous to the Foundation and our mission; she is a useful tool and a potent weapon, but if we lose our hold on her, we will never get her back. You know what will happen if that occurs.
I am aware of your fondness for Agent Elsinger, so I will remind you that the Nightingale Contingency exists for her own protection. You know her better than anyone, so you know how tenuous her allegiance is. The Contingency ensures her loyalty, and her loyalty guarantees her life. More than that, it has made her happy. If you truly care about her, you will not rob her of that.
I find it just as distasteful as you do, but it is a necessary evil — as you yourself assured me when the Contingency was first implemented.

Julian Corwin
Director, Site-246

May 1, 1988
Detroit, Michigan
"Firestarter, do you have eyes on target?"
Florence stopped and sighed. She reached up and keyed on her earpiece. "Solomon Two, stay off the channel. I need to focus and you're not helping. Unless you want to try sniffing out demons."
"You don't—"
"Devlin!" Westbrook's voice cut in. "Lay off her for one goddamn mission."
Devlin started to argue, but was cut off by a burst of static. Westbrook had jammed his transmitter, then.
The radio fell silent after a moment. Florence continued stalking through the back alleys of Detroit, hunting for demons. Just like old times. Albeit, Minneapolis had never been quite as decrepit as Detroit was now.
Focused as she was on her Observer's senses, she smelled the demonarcotics before she saw the dealer. The energy of the pharmacological demon was thick and pungent, full of inhuman malice and unnatural rage. It filled the local aura, overwhelming the occult senses with the smell of gunpowder and the taste of acid.
It was intoxicating.
Florence shuddered as she stopped Observing, blocking out the demonic energies. She had left herself far too open, if the demon's aura had been able to affect her at this range. That, or it was an unimaginably strong demon. That didn't bear thinking about. If it was that powerful, and if it was consumed as a demonarcotic, it would destroy everything in the vicinity, including its hapless user.
She picked up her pace, rounding the next corner to find the drug deal.
The dealer was instantly recognizable as such. If the vial in his hand hadn't been a giveaway, then his grimy clothes, sunken eyes, and unshaven face would have done it. He was scrawny, white, and wearing a coat that was two sizes too big for him. He had a wild, haggard look that suggested he was stupid enough to use his own product.
The woman who must have been the buyer looked out of place. Her Middle Eastern features were smudged with dirt, but her eyes were clear and bright and her posture was steady. She didn't look like a druggie, much less a druggie hooked on demonarcotics — most of them ended up not looking like anything at all, except a pile of wet ashes. Maybe she was a college punk looking for an unusual high.
The dealer glared at Florence. "Scram. This is private business."
She held out her hands in a gesture of peace. "Easy, man, I'm just passing through." She tipped her head towards the vial he was holding. "But if you're selling, I might be buying."
His eyes narrowed and he shook his head. "No. I don't know you, and I've already got a buyer."
She nodded slowly. "I was afraid you'd say that."
Before he could respond, she swept her arm up and pointed a finger at him, unleashing a burst of force that hit him dead in the chest and knocked him off his feet.
The buyer jumped back and looked at her in surprise.
"Get out of here," Florence snarled.
The woman's gaze hardened and she reached into her coat.
"Your mistake," Florence said. With two fingers extended, she swung her hand towards the woman, redirecting her will. The lance of force glanced off the buyer, sending her spinning to the ground.
There was a sound of tinkling glass, and Florence spun around to see the dealer had shattered the vial on the ground. A cloud of thick black smoke billowed into the air. It hung there for a moment, poised over the dealer, before descending upon and into him. It shot into his mouth and nostrils, forcing its way into his lungs.
He screamed. And as he screamed, he began to change. His muscles bulged, and soon he filled the coat that had been too large for him. His skin turned blue, and his eyes began to glow. His teeth sharpened into fangs, and his tongue lengthened, becoming almost serpentine. As the last of the smoke vanished down his throat, his scream became a laugh, maniacal and malevolent.
"Fuck." She keyed on her earpiece again. "Solomon One, I could really use some big guns here. Right now."
The sound of the demon's laugh drowned out Westbrook's response.
Florence willed flames into her fists, using a little bit of extra power to make her tattoo glow more than it normally would have. Demons were big and scary, and the trick to fighting them lay in being bigger and scarier.
"You gonna sit there giggling all day, or are you gonna dance, joker?" It definitely wasn't smart to antagonize a demon, but she could probably survive its attack. The same could not be said for the surrounding neighborhood of Detroit.
The demon turned to face her, a leering grin plastered on its face. As it opened its mouth to speak, there was a pop, then a crackling sound, and the demon began to convulse. It fell to the ground, unconscious, to reveal the woman standing behind it with a taser.
Definitely not a druggie then.
With its host body unconscious, the demon began to evacuate from the possessed dealer. The black smoke wafted out of his orifices, but it lacked the malignant motive it had before. Whatever energy had bound the demon to baseline had been expended, and its smoke form quickly evaporated as it returned to whatever dark pit it had crawled from.
Florence released the flame she had conjured and sighed. "Thanks for the save, lady."
The woman dropped her taser and drew a gun. A real gun, not a stun gun, large caliber and semi-automatic. She pointed it directly at Florence. "On the ground, wizard."
Westbrook's voice sounded from the alley behind her. "Hooverite, please don't point a gun at my mage. It won't end well for you, and I don't need the headache that comes from that kind of paperwork."
The UIU agent slowly lowered the weapon. She turned around to face Westbrook, a scowl on her face.
"Westbrook."
He smiled sardonically as he approached. "Agent Kartal. What an unexpected pleasure." He stopped in front of her, hands held out at his sides in a non-confrontational gesture.
Kartal continued scowling at him. Then she punched him in the face. Clearly, she knew him well.
"You stupid son of a bitch," she said. "Do you have any idea how long I spent setting up this bust? Tell me why I shouldn't arrest you right now."
He rubbed his jaw, wincing slightly. "I'm sorry?"
"Sorry doesn't get indictments, skipper."
"Then how about this: a gift." He reached into his pocket and extracted a vial of clear liquid. A small needle extended from one end, shielded by a plastic cap.
"I've got my own amnestics, thanks."
He shook his head. "Not amnestics." He walked over to the fallen dealer and knelt down beside him. He uncapped the syringe and plunged it into the dealer's arm. In seconds, the vial was empty.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Relax." He withdrew the spent syringe and recapped it. "When he wakes up, you'll find him a bit less forgetful and a little more talkative than he'd otherwise be. He might even tell you who his supplier is, which is what you were after, I'm sure."
She frowned. "That's illegal."
"The FBI, concerned about illegally obtained evidence? That must be a first." He stood up and placed the empty vial back in his pocket. "Besides, I didn't see you do anything."
She shook her head. "This doesn't make us even, Westbrook."
"I'm sure." He gestured towards Florence. "Come on, Firestarter, let's get out of Agent Kartal's hair before she decides to punch me again."
He stalked off back down the alley, towards the extraction point. Florence hesitated before following him.
"Sorry," she said to Kartal. "Didn't know you were a fed."
Kartal waved a hand dismissively. "Not your fault." She nodded in the direction of Westbrook. "Be careful with him. He's a tricky one."
Florence smiled. "That's what I like about him."

October 28, 1988
Heimaey, Iceland
The young pyromancer launched another fireball at her. Florence flicked it aside carelessly. The counterspell had barely required an exertion of will.
"Come on, kid!" she shouted. "You're not gonna get me with that. I just want to talk!"
"Fuck off, American witch!" His English was clear, if heavily accented and increasingly profane.
She sighed, then waved her hand in a circle, conjuring up a ring of flames around the teen. It was a classic trick, the same one that the Foundation had used on her, years ago. The classics were classic for a reason, and it was one of the more effective tactics for dealing with pyromancers.
She saw the burst of ARad that meant someone had just pulled a major working, but no flash of fire was forthcoming. Clearly, he knew the trick too, and was taking a different approach.
The ground shifted slightly beneath her feet. The ground which was above an active volcano.
Oh, that was bad.
"Solomon One!" she shouted into her radio. "You need to get everyone off the island. I think he's trying to trigger an eruption."
"Firestarter, can you counter it?"
Maybe. "Yes, but I won't be able to keep him contained. You'll have to cover me."
"Understood." Westbrook's voice was calm, despite the urgency of the situation. "Disengage from Target Surtr and do what you can to keep that volcano quiet."

She released her hold on the flames and dropped into a crouch. Quickly, she spun around, using her index finger to draw a circle in the dirt. As focusing geometry went, it was depressingly shoddy, but it would have to be enough. She placed her left hand on the ground and shut her eyes, closing off as many of her senses as she could. This was subtle magic, and she would need to Observe with as much precision as possible.
She sent power coursing out through her splayed fingers, invisible tendrils of will that raced to intercept the rising magma and redirect it. She could see the pyromancer's will guiding the molten rock — that meant he wasn't trying to kill her while she was distracted, at least.
A cry of pain and surprise sounded from nearby, and the pyromancer's power vanished. Florence didn't react, but kept her will completely focused on the agitated volcano.
Only once she was sure that she had stopped the eruption did she open her eyes and look over to where the boy had been standing.
His body lay on the ground, already cooling. The back of his head was missing, destroyed by a sniper's bullet.
Her radio crackled to life with Devlin's voice. "Firestarter, can you verify target status?"
Unable to look away, she closed her eyes again. "Solomon Two, Target Surtr is down."
"Firestarter, please confirm termination."
"Confirmed." She should have been shocked. Upset. She should have shouted at Devlin. But she was too drained to feel anything.
Florence. You can't save everyone.
She hadn't even tried.
Their crimes are not yours to answer for.
Devlin might have pulled the trigger, but she had been the one who had given him the opening.
"Firestarter?" Westbrook's voice on the radio now. "Did you stop the volcano?
"Yes." She had saved the island, and the lives of everyone on it. It had only required killing a teenager barely old enough to realize the consequences of his actions.
One life for five thousand. The Benthamic calculus was as simple as it was cold. It had been a necessary evil. It had been the greater good.
It didn't seem that great.

May 25, 1989
Marquette, Michigan
Florence stared at the werewolf.
She had expected a monster; a ravenous, slavering beast driven only by the instinct to kill. Instead, the creature cowered in the corner of its cage, staring at her cautiously with eyes full of fear and intelligence. It had been a person once — and as she studied its aura, she realized that, in a sense, it still was. Its body had been warped and its mind had been broken, but there was still enough humanity left for it to know the person it had been. To know what had happened to her.
Her stomach churned, and she turned away so she wouldn't have to feel the pain in the creature's aura.
"Alright, Mister Drummond, that will be all," Westbrook was saying. "We appreciate your cooperation."
The MC&D broker nodded fervently. "It is simple business, sir. My employers have instructed me to cooperate with you fully in this matter. As I understand it, the loss of a single lot of merchandise is negligible compared to the damage your people could do."
Florence wheeled on the little man, anger flashing in her eyes. "Merchandise? Is that all they are to you?"
Westbrook held up a hand, interposing himself between Florence and the hapless capitalist. "Stand down, Firestarter."
Florence clenched her fists, then leaned over to whisper to Westbrook, "You're just letting him go? After what he's done?"
"He's a mundane, we can't stick him in lockup," he whispered back. "And Mickey D has gotten really smart about amnestics. At best, he's got a memory backup somewhere on a dead man's timer, and then we're right back where we started. At worst, he's got an induced allergy that will kill him if we try to amnesticize him."
Her eyes narrowed. "That sounds like his problem, not ours."
Westbrook shook his head. "He's been nothing but cooperative, we can't just kill him."
"Did you see the script he had prepped?" Her voice changed to imitate his accent. "'As intelligent as they are deadly. Challenging and dangerous game, if you prefer sporting pursuits.'" She shook her head in disgust, then continued speaking normally, loud enough for the broker to hear. "These aren't animals, they're people. People who are terrified and in pain. And he was going to auction them off to be hunted for sport."
The broker cleared his throat. "What our clients do with the items they purchase is their own concern. I have no ability nor responsibility to control what they do with their own property."
"Yeah, you're just a pawn," she snarled. "Just like everyone else. We're all just pawns, committing tiny fractions of an atrocity and telling ourselves we have no choice."
Westbrook stepped in front of her to block her view of the man. "Mister Drummond, get out of here. If we need to contact you, we can find you."
The little twerp scurried out of the room, barely registering the implied threat.
Westbrook gazed at her quietly for a moment. "I have some contacts in the UIU, I'll pass them a tip. Maybe Kartal can do something about it. But we can't. We're not cops, you know that."
She sighed and looked away. She took a few breaths, unclenched her fists, and looked back at him. There was no trace of emotion on her face.
"When we're done here, I'm going to burn this place to the ground."
Westbrook nodded slowly. "Like I said, we're not cops."

June 12, 1989
Site-246
Devlin dropped a copy of the Detroit Free Press onto her cafeteria table. It had been opened and folded over to showcase one of the midpage articles.
HISTORIC MARQUETTE AUCTION HOUSE BURNS IN MYSTERIOUS FIRE proclaimed the headline. The article below it was only two or three column-inches long. There was a small photograph of the MC&D auction house inset next to the text.
"Your handiwork, I assume," Devlin said.
Florence continued chewing, slowly and deliberately. Maybe he would get bored.
No such luck. He kept standing there, arms crossed and expression stony, waiting for her to respond.
She swallowed. "What of it?"
"You don't think maybe someone might find that a little unusual? A little abnormal."
"Buildings mysteriously burn down all the time," she said. "Nobody's gonna suspect, much less believe, that this one was actually wizard arson."
"We're supposed to be stopping wizard arson, not perpetrating it." He shook his head. "But I should have known you wouldn't understand that."
She set down her fork and stared at him. "Nathan Devlin" — he flinched slightly as she said his name, much to her satisfaction — "what is your goddamn problem? You hate me, clearly, so why are you even on this task force?"
"Someone has to be there when you finally slip."
She raised an eyebrow. "Gosh, how chivalrous of you."
"You know what I mean, witch." He leaned in, setting his hands on the table for support. "I know your ilk. You have a little bit of power, and you think it makes you better than us mere mortals. That it gives you the right to do whatever you want, with no consequences."
She rolled her eyes. "I am better than you, Nathan."
"You don't even try to hide your arrogance. You might have the rest of them fooled, but I know better. Sooner or later, you'll go bad. Just like the one in Iceland." He smiled viciously. "And when you do, I'll do what needs to be done. Just like in Iceland."
She continued staring at him, refusing to react. "You should be more careful about putting your hands on hot surfaces."
He blinked, confused, then screamed in pain as the surface of the table suddenly burned red hot. He recoiled instinctively, saving his palms from second-degree burns.
Clutching his injured hands at his sides, he stared at her with furious malice. "You—"
"Agent Devlin!" Westbrook's voice boomed from across the cafeteria as he approached. Someone had summoned the cavalry. "Stand down."
"Sir," Devlin protested. "I was merely responding to an unprovoked attack on my person by Agent Elsinger."
Westbrook stopped in front of them. "I see." His gaze scanned across the scene, then he nodded. "I'm going to give you exactly one chance to recant the bullshit you just told me and apologize to Agent Elsinger for your unprofessional behavior."
"Of course you take her side," Devlin said. "You want to talk about unprofessional behavior, let's talk about you fuckin—"
Westbrook punched him in the face before he could finish.
"Nathan Devlin," he snarled, shoving the other man against a wall. "Per the Foundation Personnel Disciplinary Code, you are under arrest for harassment of a fellow agent, making false statements about a matter of personnel discipline, contempt towards a superior, and malingering."
"Sir, I believe you are emotionally compromised in this matter." To his credit, Devlin had managed to maintain his composure, and his voice was steady. "So I won't bring your current conduct to a disciplinary board." His eyes narrowed. "If you back off."
"Bold of you to assume that the board would take your side." He leaned closer, so that Florence couldn't hear what he whispered next. Other members of the task force had started to gather around to watch the confrontation, but she was by far the closest to the two men. If he was speaking that quietly, it was because he didn't want her to overhear.
She might not have been able to hear what Westbrook said, but she saw the effect it had on Devlin. He shook his head and started whispering back. Apparently he didn't want her to overhear either.
As they continued their hushed exchange, Florence closed her eyes to Observe, trying to get a sense of the conversation from their auras. Whatever they were discussing, it had both men agitated — Westbrook's aura, in particular, was full of nervous energy. No, scratch that, it was full of fear.
She shivered involuntarily and opened her eyes, cutting off her Observation — just in time to see Westbrook release Devlin and push the other agent towards the nearest door. She couldn't even begin to guess what he was afraid of, but it had clearly dissuaded him from taking further action against Devlin.
"Get the fuck out of my sight," Westbrook said. "You're on reserve status until further notice."
Devlin hesitated. "So I'm not under arrest then?"
"No, and you won't be." Westbrook stepped closer to him and hissed, just loud enough for Florence to hear, "If I see you provoking her again, I'll shove you out an airlock and see how long you can hold your breath. Go ahead and tell that to the disciplinary board."
Devlin saw the look in his eyes and decided against trying to get the last word. He hurried out of the cafeteria with as much dignity as he could muster, which wasn't much.
Westbrook turned to face the task force members who had gathered around to watch. "Show's over folks, go back to lunch. That's an order."
As the other agents slowly dispersed, Florence continued to stare at Westbrook. He was keeping secrets, and she was pretty sure he was keeping them from her — maybe not her specifically, but definitely in general. More than that, he was keeping them with Devlin of all people.
She shook her head. Westbrook had been the first person in the Foundation to show her any kindness, and he had always looked out for her. More than that, she was pretty sure that he loved her. If he was keeping something from her, it wasn't for his sake.
She trusted him. How could she not?

September 29, 1989
Sault Ste. Marie International Bridge, Michigan/Ontario
Bridges are liminal spaces. Thresholds, borderlines, margins. Places in-between places. That kind of conceptual self-contradiction has a huge weight on the human psyche — it draws one's attention and dominates one's thoughts. As a result, bridges are conduits for vast amounts of psionic energy, generated by the disproportionate place they occupy among oneiric space.
Few bridges are quite as liminal as the one between Sault Ste. Marie and Sault Ste. Marie. As the only border crossing between the United States and Canada for over 700 miles, its oneiric footprint is an order of magnitude greater than it would otherwise be, making it one of the largest psionic capacitors in North America.
The Chaos Insurgency was going to use it to tear open a rift to infospace, which would either project knowledge of the Veil into the minds of 33 million people or kill every human being within a three state radius. Nobody was really sure which.
The easiest solution would have been to just bomb the bridge, but they didn't want to destroy the Soo Locks except as an absolute last resort. So Delta-3 had been sent in. Nobody was really sure if that was any better.
Florence stepped onto the bridge, hair trailing behind her in the nighttime breeze. The Soo Locks stretched across the St. Mary's River beneath her, silent and empty at this time of night. The rest of Solomon's Hand had shut down traffic in the area, giving her a clear shot at her counterpart. Of course, the Insurgency psyker would know she was coming now, but that just made things interesting.
She stalked across the deck for minutes, listening to the sound of the rapids further downriver. When she spotted a figure in the distance, she didn't even hesitate before flinging a fireball at them. It arced wide, but she was already conjuring up her next missile.
She broke into a sprint, casting furiously as she went. The blasts continued to miss, and as she got closer, they actually got less accurate. She kept casting regardless, keeping up the barrage of fire and force. When she was twenty feet away, she stopped and thrust both hands forward, unleashing a pillar of flame that barreled straight towards the figure. Her aim was dead-on.
It didn't matter. Right before they would have incinerated the psychic, the flames curved away, streaking around them like water flowing around a rock.
The psychic turned to look at Florence. She smiled sweetly.
You don't really want to hit her, do you? It sounded like her own internal voice, but there was something wrong with it. Something alien.
Florence gritted her teeth and tried to call up a meditative exercise meant to clear her thoughts. The telekill headband she was wearing should have kept the psychic out, but clearly something—
Telekill? How quaint. This time she didn't even bother trying to disguise the thought as one of Florence's. Do me a favor, honey, and get rid of that.
Florence reached up and pulled the band off her head, then chucked it over the side of the bridge. She hadn't even had a chance to think about it.
Her face contorted into a silent snarl. Get out of my head, bitch.
The psychic laughed out loud. And leave you all alone? I don't think so.
A wave of despair washed over her as she realized she was alone. Her friends among the Lake Ghosts had long since forgotten her, her fellow task force members hated her, and Cody — where was he? He should have been there. He was always there. Had he abandoned her?
Unthinking, she stepped closer to the edge of the bridge.
No one is coming to save you.
And just like that, she was 15 again, orphaned and freezing on the streets. She remembered the pain — not from the cold, that had stopped hurting hours ago, but from the hunger. She couldn't remember the last time she had had a proper meal. With a violent shudder, she collapsed to the ground. She had just enough energy left to curl up into a ball and shiver.
No one was coming to save her.
You don't need them. Her voice, but not her voice. It was older, more confident. You can save yourself.
She looked up. This wasn't right. This wasn't how this had happened. She had saved herself. She had set a building on fire to keep herself warm. It had been the first time she had ever used magic. She recalled that moment now, remembering the feeling of power she had experienced.
She pulled herself to her feet, ignoring the illusory hunger and cold.
Alone alone alone all alone, the psychic whispered.
"So what," she said. "I'm used to being alone."
She opened her eyes and she was back on the bridge. The psychic stared at her in astonishment. Florence could feel the invader trying to reassert control over her mind, but her will was ironclad now. The psychic couldn't touch her.
Hey bitch, she thought. Do you know what the Law of Contagion is?
The part affects the whole… she wasn't sure if the thought came from her mind or the psychic's. It didn't matter.
Did you ever stop to think that when you invaded my mind, you put a piece of yourself in me?
The psychic had just enough time to widen her eyes in horror before Florence sent a surge of power down the link she had inadvertently created.
Then her head exploded.
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  Suburbs of Salem, Oregon. 1988

It was raining, but only gently, the sound of it falling on her umbrella no more than a soothing pitter patter. The air was cool and crisp, the sky grey but not dark, and water droplets hung from the pine branches like glass bobbles while songbirds fluffed themselves in the natural shower.
“This is a pretty little neighbourhood, don't you think?” Icky asked as she strolled down the sidewalk, the violet colouring of her face subdued to avoid drawing notice to her bozomorphic nature.
“It's still Humdrum territory. Don't get too comfortable,” Manny replied gruffly, a scarf and hat hiding his upside-down face.
“Oh, you're so grumpy. You should take me scouting with you more often. I've got better people skills. With my help, you probably wouldn't have to stuff so many kids into sacks,” she joked, giving him a playful jab in the arm.
“I do not stuff kids into sacks,” he claimed, though his guilty tone made it clear that statement was only technically true. “Look, if you can talk this kid into coming with us willingly, super. But remember the main reason I brought you here is back-up. Child Reality Benders are unpredictable, and we can't risk attracting attention while we're out in the open like this.”
“Don't worry. I'm great with kids, especially magic kids,” she assured him. “I'll turn this girl into a 5-star act in no time.”
They turned a corner and came upon a small park with a lone girl running along the play equipment, talking to herself in a loud, pontificating voice. At first Icky thought it was odd that the girl was playing in the rain, but then realized that it wasn't raining inside of the park.
“That's her?” she smiled.
“That's her,” he nodded. “I'll let you take the lead.”
The two of them walked towards the front gates and saw that they were locked. A sign had been hung reading ‘Royal Kingdom of Queen Sophie – Go Away!'. The inside of the park was littered with countless toys and candy wrappers, buoyant balloons that bobbed up and down, and a fountain full of chocolate milk.
“It's like a little Clown Alley in there,” Icky smirked. “Excuse me? May we speak with Queen Sophie please?”
“Who dares intrude upon the greatest sorcerer Queen in all the land!” the girl demanded, marching towards the entrance with a plastic staff in hand. She was a redhead, maybe about eight years old, and looked like she hadn't had a bath for some time. Her sparkling tutu and Care Bare t-shirt were covered in dirt and chocolate, and quite possibly other brown substances as well.
“Just a humble Circus performer, Your Majesty. And her companion,” Icky replied with a polite curtsy.
“You'll kneel if you don't wish to face my wrath!” Sophie threatened, followed by a loud burp. Icky humoured her without hesitation, but Manny was a tad more reluctant. “I said kneel, foreigner!”
“Just what we need, another high maintenance Reality Bender,” he murmured as he dropped to one knee.
“Now, explain why you have interrupted my eternal playtime!” Sophie ordered.
“Of course Your Majesty. We're from a community of magical people, like yourself, and -”
“I'm the only magic girl in the world!” Sophie screamed. Partly in pride, partly in pain.
“Do you really think that?” Icky asked. “Is that why you're all alone in there?”
“…Other people are scared of me. Kids, my parents, even the police and soldiers in black ran from me,” she explained. “It's better if I just stay here.”
“I'm not scared of you, sweetie,” Icky replied, allowing the bright violet to return to her lips, cheeks, and eyes. “I'm magic too. So is he.”
Manny pulled down his scarf to fully reveal his upside-down face. Sophie eyed them both with cautious optimism.
“You're… you're really magic?” she asked softly.
“Yes, and we're from a place full of magic people,” Icky told her. “A place where people won't be scared of you, where you can have friends again, where you'll be safe and loved and learn how to become even better at magic. Have you ever heard of the X-men? It's kind of like that, except that we're not superheroes. Just a Circus.”
“Are you a clown?” Sophie asked, her eyes wide with wonder.
“I am. Do you like Clowns?” Icky asked with a wide smile. The girl nodded. “Well if you were to come back with us, you'll get to see the most talented Clowns in all the Worlds. We could help you with your magic. If you're really good we might even -”
A bullet whizzed through one side of Sophie's skull and out the other. As her body hit the ground, all of her balloons floated away, her chocolate fountain ran dry, and the rain fell unhindered inside of the park.
“No!” Icky screamed as she broke through the gates and rushed to Sophie's side, cradling her in her arms. “Sophie? Sophie! Sophie, sweetie, wake up! Please wake up! Sophie!”
She plied her magic as best she could, but there was nothing she could do.
“Scoop her up and let's go! It's the Geo Sea, we've got to get out of here!” Manny shouted.
Icky glanced at the crumpled bullet on the ground and saw that it was silver tipped beryllium-bronze around a layer of telekill and an iron core, with warding microgrids engraved into each layer. It wasn't just the Global Occult Coalition, but the Ichabod Campaign. They had killed tens of thousands of Reality Benders over the decades, mostly like this. A sniper shooting down a child before they had any chance to fight back, or grow up to become a serious threat. To become anything.
Icky howled in rage. Pulling a tetherball post out of the ground for a weapon, she sped off in the direction the bullet had come from.
“Veronica, no! It's suicide! Veronica!” Manny's increasingly distant voice pleaded.
As enraged as she was, she wasn't suicidal. She kept at top speed, never ran straight for more than a couple of seconds, and weaved behind any cover she could find. She couldn't manipulate those bullets with her telekinesis. If enough of them got inside of her, they'd impede her magic too much for her to heal. A single shot to the brain or heart would kill her for sure.
This was going to be a problem; if the Strike Team couldn't take a Type Green out by surprise, their contingency was overwhelming firepower.
Icky headed for the highest point along the bullet's trajectory, and on the top of a small hill she saw the outline of ten cloaked G.O.C. Strike Team members, the rain giving away their position. The sniper was still trying to get a lock on her, but the rest of them were clearly holding assault rifles at the ready.
She pulled out her deck of trick cards and threw them all at the Strike Team before leaping down a manhole into the sewers. She knew their battle dress had the same reality anchoring and anti-thaumaturgical protections as their bullets did, so she didn't aim for them directly. Instead, all fifty-four cards hit the pavement surrounding the Strike Team with so much kinetic energy that enormous amounts of concrete shrapnel went flying in all directions at deadly velocity. She heard the men screaming in surprise, pain, and then anger. At least one was still in good enough condition to bark orders at the rest, but she was willing to bet she'd incapacitated at least a few of them.
They'd have their guns pointed at any manholes or sewerage grates around them, so she headed to the next manhole that still gave her a clear line of sight.
She lifted it just a little and saw six remaining Strike Team members standing in a defensive back-to-back formation, visible from either being covered in concrete debris or their stealth units having been damaged.
She threw the manhole cover with so much force that it decapitated one of the Gockers, and likely killed the team member directly behind him. She rapidly ducked under the gunfire of the remaining Strike Team but made no attempt to hide. After only seconds of running, she heard their rifles sputter impotently as they exhausted their magazines.
“Reload! Reload!” the commander shouted, but Icky had already moved in for the kill. She struck him across the head with the tetherball post, scoring yet another decapitation.
It seemed appropriate, given the name Ichabod.
The last three reached for their sidearms, but she dropped to the ground and took out their legs with one sweep of the post. She impaled it through the chest of one of them, kicked off the head of another, and jumped onto the third and began mercilessly pounding his head into ground beef with her fist.
“Fuck-you-you-evil-fucking-kid-killing-evil-fucking-genocidal-evil-fucking-Nazi-evil-fucking-bastards! Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!” she screamed until there was no skull left and she was just punching the pavement. She hung her head and began to sob, but then heard a groan coming from behind her. One of the Strike Team members, the second one to have gotten hit by the manhole cover, was still alive. His visor had been shattered, and Icky could now see the man's eyes.
One blue, and one green.
Not that she noticed or cared. She pulled the tetherball post out of the corpse's collapsed chest and swung it with the intention of collapsing the survivor's skull.
The moment it made contact, it turned to sand in her hand.
Taken aback, she stepped away from the man, unsure of what just happened.
“Did, did you do that?” she asked softly.
The man took off his now useless helmet, shaking dust and sand out of his blond hair. The two of them quickly became stained with crimson streaks as the rain around them turned to blood, and she had no doubt it was his doing.
“Traitor!” she screamed, lunging to tear out his trachea. Without moving, he shifted out of her path, as if he had never been there at all. With a single motion of his fist, he called down a bolt of lightning to end her for good.
True to form, Icky merely spasmed with an illuminated skeleton, and survived with nothing worse than some singed hair and clothes.
“Well, that's a first,” the man muttered. “What's it going to take to put you down, Jugs?”
He reached for his sidearm, only to find it wasn't there. Icky had snatched it as she ran past him, and was now aiming straight at him. She fired, knowing he was as powerless against the magitech bullets as she was. Had she taken him by surprise, this might have worked, but instead the blood rain before him instantly congealed into a gel-wall nearly two feet thick, more than enough to stop the bullets.
Screaming in frustration, she threw the gun down and jumped over the wall, only to find that the man was gone. Or rather, he now stood where she had been a moment ago, smoking a cigarette.
“You know, I really, really fucking hate it when you freaks make me use my own abomination against you,” he said. “It's just so fucking hypocritical. I prefer to think of myself as a man of integrity.”
She charged at him again, this time slipping on the blood. It congealed around her and strapped her to the ground, constricting around her torso like an anaconda. She couldn't summon enough strength to break free, nor enough magic to overpower whatever it was he was doing to her, and it was getting harder to breathe.
“Should've taken the bullet, sweet cheeks. This ain't going to be pleasant.”
There was still one thing she could do. As much as she hated being a damsel in distress, it was definitely preferable to being dead.
“Hey,” she croaked out. “Have you ever heard of The Man with the Upside-Down Face, at the Circus of the Disquieting?”
The man with the right-way-up face scoffed at the nonsensical question, but went pale as he recognized the feeling of something foreign probing around inside his mind.
Hello Francis, whispered a voice with no actual sound.
“Then he's heard about you,” Icky smiled.
Infohazard. She had exposed him to some kind of infohazard. His heart rate shot up as he tried to think of what to do, but he wasn't prepared for this kind of threat. The Man with the Upside-Down Face was inside his head, looking for anything that he could use against him.
And it didn't take him long to find it.
The Man saw Lilly, the Goddess Francis lived in constant fear of - no, that wasn't true. He loved Lilly. He knew he loved Lilly… The Man saw the constant disrespect, the unending criticisms, the vicious insults - all because he wasn't good enough for her. If he could just be the person she deserved, she would be nicer… The Man saw the attacks, the punishments, the mutilations - his fault. His fault. All his fault…
The Man even saw when she raped him, and did exactly what he had always feared if anyone ever found out.
He laughed.
The laughter of The Man with the Upside-Down Face echoed through Francis's skull. It was all he could hear. The Man laughed at Francis's helplessness, at his weakness, at his failure at being a man. The Man laughed at how pathetic Francis was beneath his tough guy façade. The Man laughed and laughed and laughed, until in Francis's mind there was nothing else but the laughter and the deafening, ego-destroying thoughts.
The rain had turned to water again. Icky was free, and the treacherous Gocker had collapsed into a fetal position on the ground, blanketed by an impenetrable ontokinetic cocoon. He was rocking back and forth while clutching his head and sobbing, begging Lilly not to hurt him.
Icky moved in to smash the cocoon and finish him, but heard Manny's voice in her mind telling her to leave him be and run. As much as she hated to leave a Gocker breathing, he had nearly killed her, and it was probably best to take her chance at escape while she had it.
Even so, she spat on him before she ran.

Several hours later, Icky knelt over the shallow grave she and Manny had dug for Sophie in Mount Hood National Forest. She had transfigured a boulder into a proper tombstone. It read ‘Here lies Queen Sophie, age unknown but far too young, victim of the Ichabod Genocide. May she find peace in what lies beyond this world, and may her loss forever remind us why we fight against the Book Burners. Sleep sweetly, Your Majesty'.
“I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry,” Icky wept. Manny knelt beside her and put his arm around her, wiping her tears as she laid his head up against him.
“It's a nice headstone. I'm sure she would have liked it,” he said softly. “And even though I don't approve of you risking your life like that, it's nice that you were able to avenge her, and that there are nine less Book Burners in the world who won't be able to kill any more Freaks.”
“What about the last one? The Traitor?” she asked.
“He won't remember us. I took that away,” Manny replied. “But he was too powerful for me to do any lasting damage. I hope we don't ever cross paths with him again. He had some serious issues.”
“I don't give a shit what his excuse is. He's a monster,” Icky hissed, but then let out an exhausted sigh. “Thanks for saving my ass back there. I owe you one.”
“You'd have done the same for me,” Manny nodded. “Well, we should get going. If we're not back at the Circus soon, Fuller might send Stretchy after us.”
Icky nodded softly. Kissing her fingers and touching them to the gravestone, the Freak and the Clown rose to their feet, leaving the swiftly yet lovingly made grave in peace amongst the dripping pine needles and gently falling rain.

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NAME OF TALE A Thousand Times Before His Death

1.
Every morning, the herdsman would screw up his eyes and rise from his bed. It wasn't much of a bed: an ancient, stinking mattress covered in a thin blanket. His ramshackle cottage was falling apart. There was no running water or electricity. He preferred the dark to that kind of negotiation.
He'd splash cold water from the well over his face. He'd change into new clothes, just as matted and rank as the old. He'd take up his stick and walk, to clean out the pens, fill the trough, bring feed for the sheep. He'd take them out to the high fields to let them graze. He'd watch out for wolves, even though he didn't really need to any more. It just felt like something a herdsman should do.
In the evening, he could be found in front of the fire. It warmed him. It moved in a pattern that was unnatural but lively. The walls were lined with shelf upon shelf of old books, all of which he would read over and over again. They comforted him. Worlds nestled inside worlds.
At 10 he'd go to sleep, before the cycle would begin again at dawn. In the cold months, the air could get could get bitter, but the woods nearby kept him healthy. Whenever he'd shear or slaughter his animals, or when it was milking season, he'd force himself to go down into town. He did not speak except for business. Sometimes he'd buy more sheep, or more books, but he never looked up. Eyes on his feet, like his father had taught him.
He'd look up through his window at night and see the rolling stars, and wonder which of them were real.

Of course, he hadn't always been a herdsman. That almost goes without saying.
Once, he'd been in finance, that high-stakes gain of gambling and extraction. Another time, he'd been a soldier in the Imperial army, stamping down dissent on a thousand Imperial worlds, believing in something greater than the self. In a different life, he'd opened a small flower shop in Kensington. He'd been an SCP member, a militant of the Hand, an Insurgent of Chaos, a husband, wife, father, mother, lover.
The images would all flash past him now, scenes from a half-remembered film.So many centuries to suffer the onslaught of the senses. The neon slogans blared across the sky told him enough: his pasts had all contributed to what the outside was, and he hated it. He had been so many people that he'd lost count, but they'd all shared one thing in common: they all engaged, full-throated and wholeheartedly, in the turning of the earth.
So he'd spent the last of the money on a Neo-Prometheus "Perpetual" body, a few acres of hillside, and some sheep. He made his goodbyes and ran away. He would stare into the sun and his eyes would stay the same. He'd cut himself and the wound would be made whole again. He'd tremble in the dark and try not to remember.
He'd been so many things. He didn't know how long he'd be this thing, but he didn't want anything else. He just wanted them all to shut up. He just wanted the sky to be clear.

One night, the sky was clear. No adverts or propaganda blaring down from overhead. There were usually one or two nights a month where this happened. Any good advertiser knows that too much familiarity cheapens the effect.
He willed the dark to come, but he just couldn't sleep. The blankets seemed to scratch and claw at him, as he twisted them into strange shapes. He remembered war, romance, heartbreak, smiling men in boardrooms. He opened his eyes and he still wasn't dreaming.
Then he heard laughter.
It was distant, but his land was extensive. They were up in the woods. He didn't know what to think about it. It had been… decades, probably, since anyone had last done that. It would just be more drunken kids, or the elderly enjoying their stolen youth. He'd chased them off with a shotgun the last time. He knew he couldn't kill them, but he could at least make them hurt.
But he didn't have a shotgun any more. He'd lost it in the spring of '29. He groaned, rose, and stumbled outside. The wind bit him as the clouds were tossed aside by the moon; a classic pastoral scene. The whole reason he'd moved out here in the first place.
The laughter had come from the trees to the north. He could see the distant signs of a fire, burning high and bright. Slowly, he started to walk. He was frightened. He didn't want to be seen and he wasn't sure he wanted to see. His body would remain perpetually young and fit, but his mind saw things in a vividness accessible only to the old.
He got closer. His body rustled through the trees, snapping twigs and scattering birds. He wasn't being subtle but he couldn't help himself. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? He heard voices, saw flames leaping through the trees. This was his land. He shouldn't- didn't- have to hide.
He reached an immense clearing, and a bonfire stood before him. It was a grandiose affair, crackling incessantly as it licked the treeline. All around it were people dancing, splayed out in multicoloured cloth, laughing and drinking and talking.
He tried to edge towards them, but he stumbled, and fell into the middle of the celebration. A man he'd never seen in his life shoved a drink into his hand, and then he was being clasped by two burly drunks, and then whisked bodily into the dance. Round and round the fire, a fire of rowan and beech and oak, and he laughed and drank and did not know why he was laughing and drinking.
"What is this?", he asked a woman. She was young, and pretty, and smiled so broadly.
"Bone Fire! You nae ken the bone-fire?"
He shook his head. He saw them throwing things in there- white, ivory objects.
"Where did you get the bones? There are no bones like that any more."
She looked at him quizzically. "My, straunge thou art. Comen on dauncen!"
And they throw the bones into the bonfire to ward for another year, and he danced, and listened to the frail pipe, and drank and made merry, and the fire rose, up and up and up, for another year. Their faces were so pale. They flashed broken teeth at him. Real human bodies, not faked, not forged; bodies of God, he could see, of the field and fowl.
He talked about sheep, about the herd and flock, and the menfolk nodded aye, aye, and they poured him more of the bitter ale, and the womenfolk laughed and they threw and stamped and locked arm in arm. They talked of bitter winters and of the end of death, which meant two things to each that somehow came out as one.
He kissed the girl, at the end, and she smiled and laughed and pressed a wooden cross into his hand. He fell asleep on fair loam, staring up at the stars, seeing the patterns in them. The hunter and the snake. Scorpion and fair foul. She murmured in his ear, and all the lights went out.

He woke up on a bank, the dawn beginning to shine through. He groaned, and held his head. There was no fire, no ash, nothing. No sign of anyone. The girl was gone, they were all gone. Had it been a dream?
He felt into his pocket, and found the wooden cross. He felt the woolen cloak draped around his shoulders. No. It was real. Someone had been here.
He lifted up his weary legs and began to trek back. The leaves rustled. There was no sound there, and barely any light. A crow looked at him, cocking its head in precise motions. He was of no interest to it.

The book was bound in cheap plastic. Print books were rare, and this one was at least two centuries old. He cracked it open, watching as the glue rattled out of the spine. It bounced across the floor.
His eyes were new and fresh, as they had been for decades. His brain was old but pulsed further, higher, louder as he read, roaring in a comprehension that could never be dimmed. It was the light of a man who had passed through old age and come out the other side, ready to be entranced again.
In the Middle Ages, spring and summer often saw rural celebrations called the Bone Fires. These would see peasants throwing bones into the fire to ward off spirits. Like many festivals, this was a celebratory occasion which frequently saw mummers, drinking and both spiritual and material indulgence, with
He didn't read any further. The starlings squawked in the distance, and his mind was aflame.
Because it was always aflame. The greying grass and low clouds might numb it, for a time, but it could not go out. There was a world out there, of people and dirt and muck, blood and pain, life expanding its greenery into every corner of creation. Bustle that was never the same twice, a word made one by such a frail world.
He did not know why he had seen the past, but it thrust him up, forward, his limbs transforming into motion. He walked. His shoulders were thrust back and his eyes looked up at the metal neon and the artificial moons and he walked, boots crushing frail grass, running down the hillside, ready once again, wanting the world again. One town, then two, then a thousand, then a history of travel, light, life, that midnight curve!

2.
And so he returned to the world. It embraced him, as it had done before. He started from the ground up, but he had all the time imaginable. He became a firebrand, a reformer. He gave great speeches atop high statues, his perpetual youth helping his words to ring out across crowds and skies. Laws were changed, the guilty were punished, papers fluttered across the wind as he soared and laughed.
He grew old again; not in body, but in mind. New ideas were being pushed through that he opposed, stubbornly insisting on the righteousness of the old way, his way- and, though he would never admit it, his position and status. He stood at the top of a very tall building, staring down below, at the ants and the lines and the crisscrossing grids. It was all so much. He saw parasites, fungus, eating away at the dead matter of these metal trees.
He swallowed the rest of his whisky. He removed his coat, then his jacket, and laid them carefully over a chair. He placed his hand against the glass, then with a sudden jerk smashed it. The wind howled in his ears as he placed his arms together, ran forward, and dived.
After he hit the earth and shattered, it took them months to piece him together. Only the finest for the great reformer. The faux-shock of a deathless world on faces above furs staring out of television screens- that was what he remembered. That was what his eyes saw, day after day as a new body was built, on gaunt white tables with a tailor stretched above him.

He returned to his farmland. The rustic charm it had once held was gone as the sprawl encroached on it, but his woods and pasture were still legally his property, and so none could seize them. Tall buildings grew ever taller, but there was always room for sheep.
It took decades to be fully forgotten. He watched the memoranda, the tears, the stirring speeches in memory of his former self. They were blaring out of the sky, twelve hours a day, six days a week. He began to forget what his name had been, this time. It didn't matter. History was too vast to be remembered.
Most nights he spent shivering, until suddenly he didn't any more. The shadows of the buildings grew more and more profound. The skies began to cry out now, great monuments of flashing sound. Tyrants of the sordid space, begging, pleading for more hands on the line, more men for the Empire, more workers for the colonies.
He took his pillow and shoved it around his ears. He would read a book, trying to absorb himself in another place and time, but the hands of the stars reached into his room and held his skull like a vice. He screamed, he sobbed, and the residents of the tall buildings wondered who was in such pain. They never thought to look below.
Then, one night, it happened again. A fire-light from the trees. He rose again, almost weeping. He needed this. It was so cold here. He needed them all. He stumbled, half-awake and half-laughing, out of his house and into the night.

Lives flashed in a fevered montage. In one iteration, he was a vagabond of the stars, a hermit who travelled from planet to planet telling stories that seared the mind. In another, he was a great captain of merchant vessels, renowned for both honesty and bravery. He was a writer of histories and a scientist who solved the mystery of the Michaels Continuum. He was a good man and a wicked woman, a silent workhorse and a terrible snake.
He had traversed the oceans of Sirius IV, that failed experiment in terraforming. He would look deep into the ocean, into the crabs and bustle and farms of endless kelp, and see in that complexity a kind of banal, monolithic slate.
This time, he had been a sky-sailor on the Engorged Line, that fire-born region of space that circled the galaxy's black hole. He and others would descend into it, sharding harpoons and light cannon at the ready, experiencing the unreality that lay beyond and raiding it for strange treasures. He had seen a woman in there, staring up, mouthing wordless and unforgettable sounds of distress.
And now, as he did every time, he had returned to his farm. The millenia had reclaimed the buildings around it; no towns, no villages any more. Earth was one small cog in an empire of trillions, and only the rustic and nostalgic lived there any more- a haven for the Once-Dead, that tiny minority of seven or eight billion who were born before eternity.
It could be a decade. It could be centuries. But every time he'd see a lick of fire, and find them in the forest, and return to the world. The bonfires would be lit high and they would dance in strange circles. He didn't know and couldn't tell if they were the same people each time. Nobody else had ever saw them, or mentioned them. It was just one of those things, he supposed.
He sat on the bank and looked out at the rising dawn. The revellers were all lying, exhausted, or drinking ale and mead. They talked of the harvest to come, of the Earl's wife, of the sheriff's men. He wondered a while at this speech. He wondered if it was really the speech of the past, or if it was just a construct, a fantasy.
Why did he come here? The cycles of his life continued unabated. Every time he tried to resist, one way or another, he seemed to just make it happen. The bustle of the worlds didn't seem so uniform any more, but it seems more oppressive. But he'd thought that, and its opposite, many times.
No. He knew why he came here. He came here when he'd been cold and shivering, when he'd been rejected or spurned or disillusioned with reality. He came here because the man he'd been the last cycle, the woman he'd been before that, every version of himself since the start had been somebody else.
He came here to die. Because of the things they all felt, behind the eyes, and never talked about.
The fires went out. The revellers disappeared. He stood up, sighed, and looked into the sun. It was time to dance again.