Interviewed: Agent Sarah Crowely
Interviewer: Dr. ███████
<Begin Log, ██/██/1903>

I was cold. It was Dark. I sat in my cramped space for I don't know how long. He opened the door, as light flooded the room.

Dr. ███████: So, Sarah. Let's talk.
Agent Crowely: What's this about? Was I too rough last breach, or… what?
Dr. ███████: No no, nothing like that. We just need a few things for our records.
Agent Crowely: O-okay. What'd ya need?

He dragged me out of the room, and I screamed like they always told me to. I had an audience now.

Dr. ███████: We need an account of your situation prior to joining, using your words. That's all.
Agent Crowely: Why? You guys know my background.
Dr. ███████: Yes, yes. To be quite honest, this is just red tape. But, you never know. Something important might come up from what you say. Never hurts to be sure.
Agent Crowely: Yeah, I suppose. Not much to talk about though.

He opened the door to my cage and led me to the bar room. In front of me was a man. Large, fat, drunk. He boasted wildly of what he'd do to me. He laughed to my face.
He was convinced he was the one. I was afraid. I charged him.

Reported location:
████████; New York, New York, ██/██/1903

Dr. ███████: Give it a shot.
Agent Crowely: Well. I was adopted, abducted as a baby, whatever you want to call it, by a couple of folks. E████ and T█████ Crowely. They were brothers, working together in managing some kind of fighting ring. Dunno if it was legal or not.
[pause]
Probably not.
It wasn't really a good situation. They treated me more like a rabid dog than an actual kid.
Dr. ███████: I'm sorry that happened. Could you go into more detail for me?
Agent Crowely: Well, I don't know what you want me to say.

I went for his legs. His weight betrayed him as I swept them aside. When he hit the floor with a thud, I latched onto his back.
The audience cheered. They wanted blood.

Dr. ███████: Try.
Agent Crowely: … They taught me how to fight for as far back as I can remember. Called me the "Savage Slant" like I was part of some freak show, and threw me out to the ring to fight grown-ass men. When I was seven.
"The child of the snow, raised from the savage north of Mongolia" or some shit was their pitch. "Come and see if you could take her on."
Dr. ███████: You're… Japanese though?
Agent Crowely: Yep. Born in Musashi, raised here. Surprised you knew that.
But yeah, apparently it was easier to sell a Chinese monster to a bunch of bumpkins than a Japanese one. Go figure.
Dr. ███████: Huh. So, you said that you were seven when you started fighting?
Agent Crowely: Yep. Well, I think. I don't really know, that's my best estimate. I coulda been eight, coulda been nine. Could even be ten. Mind you, this was… what, 15 years ago? I didn't have any concept of time back then, so it's all just this big chunk of "I dunno".
Dr. ███████: Okay. We'll mark that down as 'unsure'. So, how did you survive? You said you fought against grown men? When you were just a young girl?
Agent Crowely: Yeah. And I won each time.
Dr. ███████: I'm sorry, what?

I wrapped my arms around his head and went for his eyes. As I bit off his ear, he rolled on the floor, trying to get me off. I spit out a chunk of him and went to his neck to take another. He lost when my hardened nails split his eyes.

Agent Crowely: I uhh… I won most of them.
Dr. ███████: H-how?
Agent Crowely: I don't know, I just did.
Dr. ███████: I'm… having trouble understanding.
Agent Crowely: I just… tried really hard.

I threw him aside, and he fumbled around blindly, trying to escape. He smelled of piss. My hands were coated in red. Before I could protest, the brothers wrapped the man-catcher around my neck and led me back to the cage.
My job was done, but I refused. I swallowed my fear. I charged.

Dr. ███████: Sarah, you realize how insane this sounds, right?
Agent Crowely: I don't know what to tell you. You have any idea what I did back then?
I threw them out of the ring and broke their back. I slammed them to the ground and gouged their eyes out. I spit and chewed off bits of their face with filed teeth. It's why… It's why my hands are… it's why they're burned like this.
Dr. ███████: It's okay Sarah, you don't have to-
Agent Crowely: No. You don't get to do this to me, and then expect me to stop. Every night, I was put in that fucking cage. They put me in there, grabbed my hand, and held my fingers over a candle to make my nails hard as rock. Then, they filed tooth and nail so I could fight with them. Almost. Every. Night.
And you wanna know the fucked up part? They made me enjoy it. Tearing off limbs was the only real "interaction" I had with people. My life was either "cage" or "fight." And I did my damned best in the fighting 'cause… it'd make my time in the cage go by easier.
That kind of thing… it fucks you up. It fucks you up good… Can I leave? I don't know what else you want me to tell you.

I ripped the catcher from his hands and charged them both. I ran into one and skewered him on the handle. I pried my head from the collar and made short work of the other. The audience left in a hurry. I ran.
I was free.

<End Log>
Closing Statement: Before Agent Sarah Crowely returned to duty, she applied for a position in the Site-45 therapy group, as Crowely has reported deteriorating mental health, including frequent alcohol consumption. Reassignment has been considered; however, she has remained effective in her position and has shown signs of improvement in regard to her mental health.


« Previously: I Care Because You Do

If you travelled the multiverse for long enough, you saw the things that never changed no matter where you went. One of those things was inconvenient traffic jams.
As I sat in my idling car waiting for the officers to open up the Way to Flipside, a part of me couldn't help but remind me that I was a goddamned Royal Inquisitor of the Eighth Empire of the Broken Goddess, and that traffic laws were for people without a ten-word title appended to their name: in response, I reminded myself that the better part of valour was "not getting your ass handed to you by every Sarkicist looking for a fight in a fifty-mile radius."
After what felt like hours of sitting in front of the gate waiting for something to happen, one of the guards shambled over and knelt down to rap on my window. Gingerly I wound it down and looked into its beady eyes: its face looked like it'd been salvaged from bits and pieces donated by charitable citizens who'd died fifty years before this thing was born.
The officer coughed and splattered me with phlegm, before clumsily smearing it all over my face with a single limp arm. "Mind showing me your ID, ma'am?" it hissed.
I tried to ignore the acid in the spit currently eating through my face and just flashed him the Inquisitor's badge. In response, it fumbled with the badge and flipped it over almost unintentionally, before handing it back to me and giving me a look of what could've been pity or condescension.
Behind me, trendy crosses between horses, crows and some marine animal I couldn't identify — maybe a dolphin — stomped their hooves and cawed as they sniffed at my tailpipe, as if they were threatening to take a bite out of it. That combined with the weird looks I was getting from the guards made me rev the engine a little harder, drum my fingers on the steering wheel a little faster — it was too early in the day for pity and too early in the case for anything other than anxiety and speculation.
With a dismissive flick of the guard's polyjointed arm I was waved through the entrance, and soon enough I found myself in the giant tunnel known as the Artery Road.
One guess as to why they called it that.
The tunnel was a roughly cylindrical mass of reddish muscle toughened by years of abuse by cars and Orcadian hooves alike. The one distinct feature inside the otherwise vaguely knobbly hundred-foot circle of darkness was a precisely painted dotted line running straight down the road, before stopping just short of the Way itself. Nobody knew who exactly put it there in the first place, but anyone who drove through the road was silently grateful to them. Every so often, someone would veer off the line after one too many drunken orgies; you tended not to hear much about those people aside from long, grisly horror stories.
So I let the troubles of work melt away and focussed on toeing what little I could see of that thin white line, trying not to let the occasional throb of the walls, or the sound of the person behind me cantering on their horse-like abominations throw me too far off the beaten path.
As the car approached the Way, the navigational computer began to strobe on and off and my teeth felt like they were vibrating in their sockets, every cell in my body singing in harmony like tiny tuning forks. The outline of its unspace loomed large before me, my already pathetic-looking headlights totally unable to cut through the blackness that made up its entrance. At the familiar sight I braced internally and shut my eyes: the next part was always the worst.
Every Door has its Knock and every Way has its Price. This Way's particular toll was a half-litre of blood just dropping out of your system and circulating into the unknown depths of the muscles that comprised the Artery Road.
My body hadn't needed blood to function properly for five years and counting at this point in time, yet it still threw every part of my body off-balance when it took its price: first the pricking sensation like a million needles sinking into every part of your body, and then the wave of nausea as the effect of the blood loss sent me into brief shock. When I re-opened my eyes, I opened them not to the crowded pink walls and citadels of Alagadda, but the sleek futurist outlines of Flipside's metal skyline.
A warm summer's breeze was blowing, and it was early in the afternoon. Another quirk of the two worlds being diametric opposites meant that their seasons and days also got flipped: every so often, you'd see the (in)famous Alagaddan crimson snow blowing through the Way as city-wide blizzards howled and railed against the buildings on the other side of the portal.
As for why it was infamous, remember when I said you needed a half-liter of blood to get through the Way?
Trying to relax in my seat and let the auto-pilot take care of the driving, my attempt to laze in the sun was rudely interrupted by a flurry of messages from the Maxwellist intranet that turned the darkness behind my eyelids into an angry sea of flashing red messages I'd missed while I was out. Senders ranged from loose neural net experiments to fellow Inquisitors who'd condescended to use the heretic infrastructure. The thought of the old Luddite Legate-Faithful Brunel being forced to use a terminal was one of the few things to make me smile that day.
A few judicious filters later and I'd whittled the six-figure pile of messages fighting for my attention into a more manageable mess of a thousand or so. Sighing, I flicked through them all, scanning for anything of interest — all of them turned out to be typical mundanity, one-week seminars on theological interpretations of Zipporah at the Forge, updates on the samizdat breakout near the Marble District.
Nothing pressing that another one of the Inquisitors didn't have the jurisdiction or the firepower to handle. I breathed a sigh of relief and instructed the navcomp to take me to an address down in the Orthodoxy-owned part of the city.
As the buildings turned from brutalist steel and concrete buildings to Art Deco factories of brick and brass, I started running through conversational simulations in my mind, reprising old regrets and trying to find a better way to navigate the social minefield that even talking to each other had become in those seven years. Soon enough, though, I gave up on the whole enterprise: I could try to find social maxima and minima all I liked, but eventually I'd have to step out of playing social engineer and actually talk to her.
My reverie was broken by the pleasing chime of the navcomp as it informed me I'd reached my destination. I sighed and forced myself out of the car for the day's first social rigmarole.
Amitha's workshop was a relatively small building amidst the smog-clouded factories that lined the roads in the Orthodoxy's manufacturing district, tucked away in a deep knot of winding alleyways marked out by the conveyor belts that stretched from road to road. It was one of the few buildings that bothered to give a lick of uniqueness to the nondescript fronts mandated by the scripture, in the form of a subtle gold trim on a couple pillars, her name engraved neatly on the front door and some tasteful floral decorations hanging from the elaborately-styled roof.
It was tasteful, simple and almost ascetic in comparison to the Victorian parodies of Ancient Greece that stood around it and it was an almost painful reminder of everything I'd lost with her absence.
Taking a deep breath to still myself, I reached my hand up robotically and rapped on the door with three measured knocks.
When she opened the door, the familiarity turned my stomach into a tight Klein bottle of nerves. Her hair was still done up in that tight braid of red held together by resistors woven into the braid in some elegant, indecipherable pattern, and her arms were still stained with grease and burn marks from a long day of soldering and welding in her inherited laboratory.
Were it not for the assemblage of gears and mechanisms attached to her back and the newly-carved scars under my eyes and on my arms, we would've been the picture-perfect copy of the couple who'd snuck kisses and forbidden literature to one another in that same laboratory a decade or so ago.
"Afternoon, Amitha."
"Good afternoon, Inquisitor Xiang," she replied evenly. That made it five years since she'd called me "Connie". "Just wanted to drop by and swap pleasantries, or is there something not to your satisfaction here?"
I sighed. "…Ms. Vikram. You're not in trouble, I'd just like to have you on as a consultant." The words felt like I was speaking them through a thick gag of formality shoving itself down my mouth.
With a brief effort of will, Amitha disengaged whatever was plugged into her back and took the opportunity to come a couple steps closer to me. "And why's it you can't come to someone else for that consultancy, Inquisitor?"
"It's a cross-sect case." Noticing her sharp intake of breath, I cut in quickly. "Look, Amitha, gimme the benefit of the doubt here — I'm not so stupid as to go after you cause you're the first convert that came to mind. Problem is there's a lady on the other side of the Way to Alagadda with Legate Trunnion's words drilled into her head via mass driver, and if there's a person who'd know where you could get something like that done, it'd be you."
Amitha relaxed and quirked her lip. "Right. So I'm not guilty, I just know enough to be."
"Hey, if you think anyone's gonna convict on that alone, you'd be a) right and b) the second person to get dragged to the firing line after me."
"So you're doing this… what, out of some misguided belief you're protecting me?"
"I like to think I'm doing both me and Ms. Allison Chao over there a service by getting someone who actually knows their shit on the case, but if you want you can think I'm saving both our asses from one count of cross-universal hate crime, sure."
She flinched at the name I'd just dropped. The tactic might've been effective for pulling sympathy from civilians when speechifying but I hadn't expected it to be quite that effective. "Allison… black hair, sleeveless top, tattoo right there?" She pointed at a spot on her shoulder.
"Eye for details, huh. You'd make a decent cop."
"Xiang, shut up." Amitha began to turn and pace towards the back of her workshop. I didn't have a choice but to follow her in. "Are you absolutely sure that's the woman you saw?"
"I can literally project the photos I took onto the wall, if it's so important to you. Tell me why."
And as the faint sound of sirens in the distance began to make itself known to me, Amitha's face turned into a mask of confusion. "Because she's been waiting right here the entire time."

Next: TBA »


…And thus do I decree that Erbil, and the citadel within, shall henceforth be the stronghold of Alchemy. Let all who challenge the wise take note, that within these walls is the sanctum of Balance…

-Excerpt, Decree of Erbil, by Amar-Sin

The streets of the Citadel of Erbil were unfamiliar beneath the purple shod feet of Ruslav Diaghilev. He'd been instructed to seek out the Citadel by Elder Hayyan, but the only indication where he was supposed to go was the intrinsic pull from within him, leading him in wending circles through alleys. The Aether currents of this area were a hurricane of color, swirling and darting here and there. There was no doubt the Citadel was home to something important.
He could have at least told me what to look for… Ruslav thought to himself, as his feet were pulled down another side alley. He'd crossed this street four times since arriving, but he couldn't stray from his path. Hayyan's last compulsion was too strong.
His eyes were drawn forward, to an unassuming door at the end of a dead-end alleyway. There was no indication that this side street was any different from the others, besides a simple five pointed star inscribed in the baked clay of the alleyway wall. He reached out, and gently brushed the symbol, feeling the Aetheric currents flowing through the points of the symbol.
He walked forward, and placed his hand on the handle of the door in front of him. There was no lock, but there was a heavy set of Aetheric currents placed on the wood and metal frame. A dabbler might have called it a 'Ward', but Ruslav recognized the flow of the elements through the gossamer light threads of Alchemic control.
The flows were designed to discourage people from approaching and entering the door, but a simple nudge on the Ferric Aether dealt with that. He slipped the door open, and it closed softly behind him, the flow restoring itself to harmony. Ruslav smiled, having left little trace upon the currents within the door.
A dark skinned man sitting behind a desk just inside the doorway looked up from the large book he was reading. His bald scalp shone with a thin film of sweat above his deep-set dark eyes. His mouth was quirked up in a slight smile. His thin frame the man within tight fitting linen robes shifted as he stood up. "Can I help you, sir?" he said, in flawless, if accented Sumerian.
Ruslav nodded slightly, and approached. "Da, I have been instructed to appear here, to present myself to the body."
The man smiled a bit deeper, and his hand moved subtly, grasping something under the table, "Body? I'm not sure what you mean. This is simply my master's warehouse."
Ruslav reached in to the sleeves of his robe, and lifted out a heavy iron disc, with a stamped seal on it. "My master's seal."
The dark-skinned man leaned forward, studying the coin, before passing a hand over the stamped metal. His eyes widened in recognition. "Ahh. This is Elder Hayyan's. I suppose you could not have gotten through the door without the proper skills, either way."
Ruslav nodded, and replaced the coin in the small pocket in his sleeve. "Da, I understand."
"I am Adebeyo, apprentice under master Nipros. Thank you for not dismantling the currents in the door. Ferrics always give me trouble," his voice was mellifluous, obviously used to a more flowing language the common-tongue Sumerian used. The smile on his face was genuine, and lit up the young man's countenance. "You may go in, when you are ready, sir." He gestured towards a wall, and smiled a bit deeper.
Ruslav let his senses range out, and felt the illusory wall clearly. He nodded at the young man, and passed through the false section of wall, his feet crossing from hard-packed clay on to tiled floor.

…You're sure it's not too pretentious? I would hardly prefer to have Alchemists from all over the world come in and think we're just wasting money and resources on ostentatious displays of frivolity…

-Excerpt, Letter from N. Flamel to unknown recipient

Ruslav was stunned. He had seen many wonders in his time, including the experience of having the life energies forced back in to his body, but he'd never seen anything like the Observatory before. His mouth stood agape, the vaulted ceilings curving away in to the dark expanse of the night sky.
The apparatus before him slowly cycled in celestial patterns from all over the sky. Ruslav recognized one as the twin worlds of Arnos, in the far distant skies. He'd visited the worlds with the aid of a colleague in Kormulast, before meeting his encounter with Elder Hayyan.
The city of Evergrinding Salts had proven an ample ground for Alchemy to take root. Alagadda was, of course, still considered the primary breeding grounds for alchemic experimentation, but the rumors coming from the Great City had become unnerving. The Scarlet King, always eccentric, had moved from curiosity to cruelty in his novelties. There were whispers of people going missing in the streets, to disappear in to the halls of the Scarlet King's laboratories.
Ruslav's eyes tracked the movements of distant stars, the Aether flows around the observatory surrounding him, and changing the vista to match his eyes. The star maps changed and shifted, meandering through the Helg Cluster, down to the constellations. Ruslav barely noticed the young man walk out the entrance, absolutely entranced by the observatory in front of him.
A moment passed in silent wonder, before the dark skinned man from the entryway walked through the wall behind him, standing beside the awestruck alchemist. "Wondrous isn't it? When I first arrived, I could only stare at it, too."
Ruslav snapped out of his reverie, and looked over at Adebeyo, the Aether flows normalizing around him. "I did not notice you. My apologies. Who is watching the door?"
Adebeyo smiled, and looked at the observatory with distant eyes, "Journeyman Xian." He paused for a moment, looking over at the older, heavy boned man. "Do you need help finding someone or something?"
Ruslav nodded, and his clear grey eyes met Adebeyo's, "Da, I am here to meet with the Elders of the Thirteenth Circle."
Adebeyo's eyes widened, "The thirteenth? Are you certain of that?"
Ruslav nodded, and pulled a folded letter from his left sleeve, and opened it to the last fold. Two scrawled names were recognizeable among the Sumerian. "Ὀλυμπιόδωρος" and "नागार्जुन" which Adebeyo recognized as Elders Olympiodorus and Nagarjuna. He nodded, and bowed slightly. "I apologize, Elder. I had no idea that you had such pressing business."
Ruslav's mouth contorted slightly, beneath his bushy grey mustache. "I am no Elder. Not yet. I am simply Ruslav. Or if you're feeling formal Mister Diaghilev."
Adebeyo nodded, and gestured to a staircase to his right, "Please, follow me." Down the stairs was some kind of open-air lecture hall and they passed several tables laden with books, and various small apparatuses. Young men and women sat before the tables, presided over by several older Alchemists in robes of every color imaginable.
One of the presiding alchemists, no more than four feet tall, was floating on a small sphere of quartz, with a cushion on top. Ruslav could feel the Alchemic currents holding the quartz up. He'd never felt the Aethers as strongly as he did in this place. They were like a constant flood around him of every conceivable shade and variety. The short man's voice was soft, and fatherly "Remember, Astronomy is the science, and Astrology is the pseudo-science. We, as alchemists, know how to combine the two to create a true alchemical understanding as Astrologians…" the words faded away as they walked past the tables, and to a heavy door of what looked like some kind of obsidian.
Adebeyo laid his hand on the door, and concentrated. The Terronous aethers stirred around him, and a reverberation went through the dark glassy material. The doors parted, and Adebeyo stood back slightly. "This is a bit beyond me, but I wish you luck, Mister Diaghilev."
Ruslav smiled slightly, and nodded to the young man, walking in to the richly appointed room that served as a foyer for the offices of the Alchemists of the Thirteenth Circle. The walls were a soft sandalwood draped in tapestries. Each one showed a different Alchemist, performing some major feat of mastery.
Ruslav's eyes moved from left to right, as his feet glided over the thick carpeting on the floor. The philosopher's stone…the first transmutation…the prediction and ending of the second alchemic war…, he thought to himself, before reaching the final tapestry. It was old. Much older than the others, and only a few feet long. In it, were stitched a few runes that Ruslav couldn't recognize.
He concentrated for a moment, and the Aethers swirled around him in a dazzling concordance of colors. He felt a strange prickling sensation over his scalp, as the runes settled in to something more familiar. The formation of the College of Alchemy. Merlin forming the first compact.
"Beautiful aren't they?" A woman called out from behind a shallow desk along the far wall. Her ash blonde hair was giving away to grey in places, but her face was that of someone just past a very vigorous middle age. She wore robes of Sky blue, and she looked relaxed, as she stood from the chair.
Ruslav nodded. "My apologies. I do not normally get caught up looking at things." Twice in one day no less… Ruslav admonished himself.
"It's a common reaction. May I ask what brings you to the Thirteenth Circle?" Her smile remained pleasant, but he could feel the edge in her tone. His brows knit for a moment before he bowed deeply to the woman, as recognition set in.
"Elder Perenelle. I am honored to meet you." He straightened, and withdrew the letter from his sleeve. "My master sent in a letter to the college many months ago, requesting my entry. I was summoned by the Thirteenth Circle here, to answer for a response."
She strode forward, and took the letter from Ruslav, slipping a pair of spectacles over her ears, and on to her face. "Ahh, yes. Hayyan's request was highly unusual. He outlined your…condition in the letter, but we wanted to see it for ourselves."
Ruslav shifted uncomfortably, and nodded. "I understand."
She smiled again, a reassuring and warm expression. "Wait here for a moment, while I bring in the other members of the circle?" He nodded in affirmation.

…I am nearly certain my life will end after I accomplish this. I ask, however, that this man, Ruslav, be allowed my place in the college in my stead. He has all of my knowledge, and the will to enact my final project which you've all been briefed on. Beyond that, he is what we've always dreamed of. Takwin. Artificial Life. He is as close to a pure weapon against outside threats as we will ever get…

-Excerpt, Letter from Elder Hayyan to the Thirteenth Circle of the College of Alchemists

Ruslav sat in a spartan office, along with Elders Perenelle and Nicholas Flamel. Ruslav had endured several hours of questions, prodding, and alchemic examination by the Thirteenth Circle before being invited to the Flamel's office. "I couldn't believe it myself. Do you realize what you are, Mister Diaghilev?" The heavy wooden panelling of the walls conveyed a sense of warmth, and the light streaming in from the clear glass windows was a soft golden gleam from some artificial source.
Ruslav nodded. "I am aware of the conditions of my creation. Perfectly. Everything that Elder Hayyan knew, I know."
Elder Nicholas leaned forward, "So you're saying you could do it again? Takwin? Create life?"
Ruslav shook his head softly. "No. I cannot do this. Master Hayyan expressly forbid me from enacting this Alchemy ever again. I would not dishonor his wishes."
The senior alchemist leaned back in his chair, the heavy forest green robes he wore bunching around his thick forearms. "And why not? What's so wrong with it?"
Ruslav looked in to the Elder's deep green eyes with conviction, "To create life requires that one destroy life. It puts…an onus upon the creation. Elder Hayyan created me, whether he realized it or not, with a compulsion. While I have my own will, I will, or must, eventually obey this compulsion."
Elder Perenelle took in a breath, "God preserve…that's…." She looked over at Nicholas, who nodded. "I understand. Thank you for being candid. Either way, the other Elders have concurred that you've got all the knowledge, and qualifications to join the 7th circle, as Elder Hayyan wished. Furthermore, we're happy to convey the title of Elder upon you. Congratulations, Elder Diaghilev. May you walk in wisdom."
Nicholas beamed at the newly entitled Alchemist, and grinned. "Congratulations indeed. This is going to certainly light a fire under Henry though. He's been campaigning to have that Alagaddan join the 7th circle instead, and it's no secret he disagreed with Hayyan."
Ruslav bowed, "Thank you, Elders. If it is not too much trouble, I do not have lodgings in the Citadel tonight. Is there a place I could—"
Nicholas held up his hands, hastily cutting off Ruslav, "Of course, of course. We'd insist you stay anyway. We have to hold a congregation to have you installed formally within the circle. I'd like to invite you to be our personal guest until then, if you're amenable?"
Ruslav nodded, and bowed his head to the Elders again. "I would be honored. Thank you, Elders."
Perenelle smiled, and waved a hand. "Think nothing of it. May I ask you a question, Elder Diaghilev?" Ruslav nodded. "Why you? Not to sound rude, but you're from the far Slavic regions are you not?"
Ruslav sat back a bit, and took a deep breath. "Yes. I am from a small village, where I studied Alchemy from my first master, who was not part of the college."
Nicholas leaned his head on his hand, his eyes sliding over to the book case in the corner, idly waving his fingers in his free hand. "So you just…travelled across the entire world, to meet Elder Hayyan?"
Ruslav shook his head, his own eyes drifting to the small crystals lining the edge of the desk. "My master had sent me to Elder Hayyan for personal reasons. There was an accident, and I ended up being mortally wounded. Elder Hayyan tried to heal the wound, but to no avail. The next thing I remember, was waking up, with Elder Hayyan over me. He'd claimed he'd unlocked the secret of Takwin and quickly fell ill. He passed away several months later. I set off immediately for the College, as he wished."
The Elders exchanged glances, and Perenelle hesitated for a moment, before speaking, "Elder, did he…ask you to come here for something specific."
Ruslav fixed her with a heavy-eyed stare, the intensity of which reminded her indelibly of the conviction she saw in Elder Hayyan's eyes in the many years they'd worked together. "The Great Seal. It is time. Elder Hayyan believed it, and so do I."
Nicholas let out a quiet whistle. "Do you realize what this is going to do? Who this is going to anger?"
Ruslav nodded. "Da. I am prepared for this."

…We are out of time. We're missing one last key to the Great Seal. I'm not yet sure what it is, but I feel like its coming closer. When I find it, I will let you know. I don't know if you can get a message to him, but if you can, tell him to be ready…

-Excerpt, Letter from Elder Hayyan to the Thirteenth Circle of the College of Alchemists

Ruslav had arrived to the Great Hall hours before the meeting. The entire room was relatively simple, if spatially impossible. Far overhead, massive lanterns of golden flames lit up the entire hall. The walls were solid stone, and the ceiling was made from the largest timbers that Ruslav had ever seen.
The seats in the room were broken in to 12 sections, for each of the non-senior circles, and a general assembly for those not within a collegiate circle. In the center of the room was a large circular dais, with 13 chairs on it, and a single lecturn. The Thirteenth Circle would sit on the dais, and address the lower circles, with Ruslav's appointment being the last order of business. He himself sat in the general assembly, having not yet been formally recognized as a member of the 7th circle.
His brand new silk stole sat around his shoulders, indicating his title of Elder. Already, apprentices and journeyman were taking their seats. The seats of the First Circle were the most numerous, with the apprentices streaming in. The journeyman took their place in the seats of the Second Circle, followed soon by the Magi in the Third Circle. Ruslav recognized the dark skinned Adebeyo among the Magi of the Third Circle.
The fourth circle were the first to have the Elder stoles, its membership primarily the newly minted Elders coming up from the Third Circle. The next group to enter were the members of the Fifth Circle, the first specialized circle. Each of them were well versed in Evocation and the direct application of the Aethers as direct forces. Lord Henry had transfered from the Fifth to the Seventh circle years ago.
The Sixth Circle members were talking among themselves, somewhere around seventy members all specialized in the calling of entities and beings from beyond our reality. Among them were several Alagaddans, covered head to toe in their impenetrable robes.
Ruslav paid close attention as the seventh circle came in, and Ruslav only knew one by sight, Lord Henry who had apparently disparaged Ruslav's entry to the Thirteenth Circle. He narrowed his eyes slightly as the man came in, dressed in robes of deep mahogany.
The Eighth circle, specialized in Imbuing had the most members of any circle, around a thousand. They were followed in by the Ninth Circle who composed the vast majority of scribes and instructors within the college.
The Tenth Circle, masters of signs and hermetics were followed by the 11th circle, the dedicated students of transmutation.
The second to last circle, the Twelfth Circle was composed of the leaders of each of the lesser circles, and were in general contention to be promoted to the Thirteenth Circle eventually.
A flash of light emanated from the dais, and the thirteen members of the Thirteenth Circle stood with their croziers in hand, looking out among the collection of alchemists. The leader of the circle, and Eldest among the Alchemists strode forward, and held his crozier aloft. Another flash of light, and swirl of the Aetheric currents in the room, and the doors locked in unison. Hermes Trismegistus called the meeting to order.
Ruslav couldn't follow what most of the meeting was about, referring to internal matters within the physical college at the Citadel, or with minor issues of the council. Finally, Perenelle gave Ruslav a significant look from the dais, and Eldest Trismegistus spoke gestured towards the younger Alchemist. "Elder Perenelle, you have the floor."
She bowed slightly, and stood, smoothing out her robes. She approached the lecturn with joviality. "Elders, Magi, Journeymen, and Apprentices. It is my great honor to announce that we have an installation today. Elder Diaghilev, would you please join us on the dais?"
Ruslav stood, and took a steadying breath, his own crozier held loosely in his hand. He walked up the three steps to the dais, and strode across, his feet absolutely silent in the handcrafted shoes he wore.
Elder Perenelle gave him a deep smile, and turned to address the assembly once more. "This man, Ruslav Diaghilev has shown mastery of the art in all required areas, and in significant quantity to attain his rightful title of Elder. Please join me in welcoming him to this most august rank." A polite chorus of applause emanated from the assembled Alchemists.
"As an Elder, he would normally be conveyed to the Fourth Circle until a specialized area of the Art was shown to be in true mastery. In this case, and with the recommendation of the late Elder Hayyan, Elder Diaghilev has petitioned, and the Thirteenth Circle has acceded to his request, to join the Seventh Circle of Alchemy within the College of the Citadel." The assembly erupted in to genuine applause this time. Perenelle looked over at the seats containing the ten or so Elders of the Seventh circle, beaming. Most of the men and women there were applauding with the same enthusiasm of the rest of the crowd, except for Lord Henry.
A dark, ugly expression crossed the aristocrat's features, as he stood, his slender crozier held in his hand. The Aether currents swirled around him, as he channeled them to amplify his voice. The Aeronus and Fulminous aethers trembled as his voice rang out, "This is an OUTRAGE!"
The entire assembly fell silent, as Elder Henry strode out of his section, the other members of the Seventh Circle sat silently, in apparent assent. "This man, this…dabbler comes in here, and is immediately given a stole, and a place in our Circle? This is an outrage!"
Elder Perenelle looked unfazed, as she smiled at Elder Henry, "Elder Henry, you do not approve of the unanimous decision of the Thirteenth Circle?"
Elder Henry reached the stage, and stood shaking with anger, "I do not! And in the absence of Elder Hayyan I am the acting Eldest of the Seventh Circle. I demand we hold discourse about this…I have seen no proof of his skills! We have seen nothing of his abilities, or his masteries!"
Elder Perenelle looked over at Ruslav, "Do you have anything to say in your defense, Elder Diaghilev?"
Ruslav took a step forward, and nodded slightly, "I do. You have named me dabbler, pretender, and nepotee. I say the Thirteenth Circle has declared this untrue. Do you challenge their word as well as Elder Hayyan's?"
Lord Henry stood, and strode to the Dais, letting his long silver crozier thump on the wood. "I do. Elder Hayyan has not been seen for months, and now you come here, claiming to be his heir? I do not know what you have done to prove yourself to the Thirteenth Circle, but I certainly cast doubt on it."
Ruslav's brows knotted, "Elder Hayyan entrusted me to come here, and deliver a message after he died. The man saved my life, and bade me to come here, to join you, Elder Henry."
Lord Henry looked back to the Seventh Circle gathered in the seats, "While you claim this is true, and you've convinced the council, you cannot simply override our autonomy as a Circle. I, and my colleagues name you dabbler, and not fit to join our circle."
Elder Perenelle walked forward, "And we, as the ruling Circle declare that your claim has no merit. With a unanimous decision of the Thirteenth Circle you have no legal grounds, according to the Compact to refute his entry."
Lord Henry shook his head, and set his jaw, "I have one last option."
Elder Nicholas stood, and took a step forward, "Henry, you can't be serious?"
Lord Henry's face took on a purplish cast, and he held his crozier aloft, a slender rod of silver and malachite fashioned in to an ouroboros at its head. "I challenge you to the Circle of Balance." A murmur went up from the crowd as the words rang out.
The murmur rose to a clamour, until Eldest Trismegistus slammed his crozier on the lecturn's granite block. "Silence! There has been a challenge to the Circle of Balance. Elder Diaghilev, do you accept?"
Ruslav took a step forward, and nodded. "I do. May the wise prevail."
In the seats of the Third Circle, Adebeyo shifted slightly, not able to believe the person he met at the door yesterday was now challenging Elder Henry Percy. This was unprecedented. Beside him, his friend Allen gently touched his shoulder. "Hey, Adebeyo. I've got six alcesti that Percy wipes the floor with this guy."
Adebeyo smiled, and leaned back slightly. "I wouldn't be so sure. Ten that Ruslav makes him look like a fool."

…Sometimes, even the wise cannot settle things with words. Therefore, as part of this compact, we shall establish a procedure for determining who is correct. Barbaric? Maybe. But in cases where there is no resolution, whoever has greater mastery of the Art shall receive deference.
The Circle of Balance shall be the final arbiter between two alchemists…

-Excerpt, Compact of the Eldest and Most Wise Alchemists of the Arte

Ruslav stood in the cleared dias, across from Lord Henry, who held his crozier near the head, his hands tight around the metal. Ruslav's own crozier was held loosely in his left hand, leaving his right free to work whatever Aethers were required. "If you wish to end this peacefully, you still may, Elder Henry."
Lord Henry shook his head, his emotions calmed now, but still obviously determined to oust Ruslav. "Hardly. You show up out of nowhere, and try and force your way in to my circle. Never. I'm going to make you wish you'd stayed in Slavia."
Elder Perenelle took a step forward, and held up a hand. "Gentlemen. May the wise prevail. Begin." She turned, and quickly walked off the dais, sitting in one of the relocated chairs at the edge of the dais.
Lord Henry thrust his cane forward, gathering as much of the Fulminous Aether as he could from the currents around him. It came forward like a torrent, and he cried out, the energies coalescing in to a massive fork of lightning.
The chaotic stream streaked towards Ruslav, who held his right hand out, letting the energies within and without flow through him, the Terronous Aether responding easily to his desires. He mixed in the heavy stream of Aequeous Aether flowing over the stage, and gently swiped his hand across his body, the forked lightning streaking up towards the ceiling, and the energies harmlessly expanding in to a globe of light.
Lord Henry stared at Ruslav in disbelief. He took a moment to compose himself, and took a step forward, his hands falling to his sides as he gathered Igneous Aether. His crozier stuck fast to his hip against a metal plate, energized by the Terronous Aether. A cry escaped his lips as he shoved his hands forward, over and over. From his fingertips fire flashed out, the Igneous Aether nearly overwhelming, as the lights above them dimmed. A dozen globes of fire streaked out in unison across the stage.
Ruslav once again held up a hand, this time his left, as the Aeronous Aether flowed smoothly and without issue through his body once more, gathering the energies behind the fire and dispersing them harmlessly, in to the skies. The orb above them glowed brighter, as Ruslav channelled all the violent power Henry threw at him into it.
Henry let his hands fall to his sides, as he struggled for breath, straightening. "What are you, a coward? Fight back!" The Elder alchemist reached in to the ground, gathering Terronous and Ferric Aethers from all around them.
Ruslav narrowed his eyes. Something was wrong. The power that Henry was throwing at him was tremendous, yes, but something was off. Ruslav gently gathered the Aethers into him, to expand his perceptions of time, as Henry unleashed the stored energies.
Gravity surged around Ruslav, attempting to crush him to the ground, but…it was a fraction of a second after Lord Henry unleashed his energies. There was something else going on. Ruslav waved his arms in a slow circle in front of him, easily dispersing the energies around him, and up in to the skies, once again turning Lord Henry's destruction in to Harmonious Balance.
Henry's eyes bulged in his head, his frustrating growing with every motion. "Fine. You're from Slavia, let's see how you like the cold!" This time Ruslav focused on his hands, where the Aeronous and Aeqeous Aethers gathered in a torrent of power. They weren't gathering from the room, though. The Aether flows around Lord Henry were barely being tapped. Just below his palms, in the meat of his hands, the Aethers were flowing from somewhere else.
Ruslav reached out for the first time, with the Tenebrous Aether, the cold power of the vacuum beyond the stars. Lord Henry was pulled forward, the Aethers gathered in his hands being redirected up into the sky, as the small slits in reality behind his palms were dragged forward, and Henry along with them.
Ruslav strode forward, struggling to hold on to the Aether flows. Henry kneeled on the dais, his hands turned upwards towards the pull of the Tenebrous Aether that Ruslav had summoned. Ruslav pulled his hands together against the tide of power, and suddenly spread them, expanding the portals. The black light pouring out from the portals expanded until the entire room could see beyond the rip in time and space.
Beyond the dark edges of the portals, a figure could clearly be made out. Terrible and powerful and hungry the glowering visage of some malevolent entity smoldered as it looked at Ruslav. The cosmic abomination's eyes narrowed, and the squirming tendrils of one of its innumerable hands reached out towards the portal. Ruslav's eyes widened, and he slammed his hands together, the Tenebrous Aethers suddenly reversed, slamming the portals shut.
A thunderous silence fell over the collected alchemists. The entire Eldest Circle was on its feet, croziers in hand at the offense before them. Lord Henry fell to the dais, unable to support himself any longer.
Lord Henry shuddered, and looked at Ruslav in panic, "What…what was that?!"
Above Ruslav, a soft sound not unlike music emanated from the pulsing orb of white light. A newfound star. The Aethers within the mote of light emanated out in harmonious balance. The energies washed over the alchemists, all of them feeling the torrential power within.
Elder Perenelle smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "A prismatic confluence. I'd say that proves he's no dabbler, Henry. Apparently, you were not the only one who didn't want Ruslav within your circle."
Henry lifted himself to his hands and knees, and looked at the gathered circle behind him. "What the hell just happened?"
Around the room, the circles erupted in to chaos, as the alchemists from the Seventh Circle strode out to Lord Henry's side. One alchemist, an Alagaddan, laid his hand on Lord Henry's shoulder. "This isn't over, dabbler." The naked hatred in his eyes burned in to Ruslav's.
Ruslav shrugged, and fixed him with a heavy-eyed stare. "I will be ready when you wish to try again."
Lord Henry cried out, as his colleague gathered energy from the confluence, "Wait, what are you doing? Qy'phrenos, what is the meaning of this?". With a flash of light the group of alchemists in front of Ruslav dissipated in to the ether.
Elder Trismegistus strode forward to where Ruslav stood, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Well. This isn't good."
Ruslav sighed heavily, and rested his heavy Cold Iron crozier on his shoulder. "It is time to deliver the message I came here to give."
…The Great Seal. It was a theory of my late master. As the only remaining member of the Seventh Circle, and last heir to Elder Hayyan, I propose we put all efforts towards enacting the Seal. It will take many years to gather the required energies and allies, but if we do not start now, our world will forever be terrorized by the entities that consider human lives and fates a plaything…

-Excerpt, First address of the College of the Citadel, by Elder Ruslav Diaghilev, Eldest of the Seventh Circle

« Channeling Flows | Restoring Harmony | Lepidoptraetheia »


Robert Bumaro, Builder of the Broken God, sat at one end of the table. His dead, metallic gaze honestly reflecting how dead he felt inside. He was indeed dead inside too, as he dumped his organic body in some Ancient Greek trash bin some thousand years ago.
On the other hand, Grand Karcist Ion who sat at the opposite end had too many eyes for his own good. He had to close a bunch of them so that he wouldn't see a dozen of tables, and a dozen of his mortal enemies blurred together. He also had to close a few of the more inhuman ones, so as to not get a terribly distorted vision. These eyes were in fact, very much decorative.
"Why," Bumaro finally said, his forehead resting in his hands.
"Because I will come down as a god and devour all of you! Including your petty metal church!" Ion roared as his voice from the many mouths resonated, before briefly choking on his own saliva.
Bumaro buried his face further into his hands. "Then why don't you do it already. Clearly nothing is stopping you now, since you've been sending these inferior copies of yourself here, for like, a week now."
"You Mekhanites sent us into the Great Brass Prison, remember!" Ion opened all his eyes wide in anger, before closing them in a headache cause by this sudden flux of visual input.
"That was three thousand years ago, also last time I checked Adytum links to Alagadda, and Alagadda goes here fine, so I'm actually surprised why you haven't just gotten out of there."
"Well, I might have gained a bit of weight." Ion averted his gaze. "But that doesn't matter! We've been preparing for my return! Sacrifices here and there!"
"Yes, human fruit trees and farmlands. Clearly you guys have taken on the lifestyle of hardworking farmers, I'm almost proud of you," Bumaro said in a monotone voice. "What happened to the old style meat temples. I'm really missing that right now."
"How can your stupid machine mind understand! All of these are part of a grand plan, of course!" Ion yelled as his arms waved around furious, hitting some of his eyes. Ouch.
"Ion, like, I don't think staying next to Yaldabaoth is good for your mental health," Bumaro sighed, his inside deader. "I remember having way more intelligent conversations with you."
"What do you know, this is all your fault anyways!" Ion yelled with a growing volume.
"How is this my fault now," Bumaro said flatly.
"If it hadn't been you Mekhanites, I would have fulfilled my vision already! This is all for a good cause!"
"The good cause of turning people into flesh blobs. I mean it isn't really my fault that you pissed off some people. I wasn't even in charge of the Mekhanites by then," Bumaro said. "I only beat the shit out of you."
Ion let out a frustrating yelp and struck with mighty fury. One of his longer arms quickly formed into a blade, which impacted with Bumaro's head. Then the bone broke, expectedly as bones often do when they're applied against metal. Ion fell back and sat on the ground, tears streaming from a few of his eyes.
"Why are you even doing this," Bumaro said, his hands rubbing his unharmed temple. "I mean you have tried this a dozen of times by now."
"I will tear at you until you break!" Ion screamed, quickly healing the broken bone, without resetting it, creating yet another deformed limb. "All the mighty warriors of flesh I've sent have failed, but I shall bring you down with my own hands!"
"Those are like, giant meat piles," Bumaro sighed. "Maybe they failed because they don't have any appendages to move. Next time consider how things actually work, maybe."
"Lies! All your metallic lies!" Ion waved his newly deformed limb. "I will never listen to you!"
"Nadox totally left you to run off with Derdekeas, Ion."
With that, Ion's gaze widened. He stuttered about revenge, then turned and ran out of the main hall of the Broken Church. In a moment, a few loud howls and something akin to crying can be heard in the distance.


by qntm

Who the fuck infiltrates a senior Foundation official's home, while they're home?
Marion Wheeler lives deep in coniferous forest, a long drive from the nearest major city and a long drive in the opposite direction from Site 41. It's late, last thing, and she's reading in bed when she hears the muffled, unmistakeable click of her front door being unlocked. She looks up, and stares blankly at the wall for a second while listening to soft footsteps moving into the hallway.
She marks her place and reaches for her Foundation-issued phone. She has no permanent security staff at home — the Division is understaffed and trained operatives are in much more serious need on Site — but the building and grounds have beefy electronic countermeasures. They, she discovers, have all been disabled, along with the sensors and cameras. She was not notified that this had happened. Whoever did it had a valid code.
Who, though?
The Foundation has enemies. True, the list of credible, motivated enemies is surprisingly short, and the list of groups stupid enough to try to kill or capture someone at her level is shorter. But it's far from empty, and it's not actually so hard a feat; not too many people below O5 level are privileged to travel in motorcades. The real trick, the impossible trick, is to avoid unholy retaliation. But what if you really think you can? What if you've decided it's worth it?
Wheeler triggers the silent alarm. She sets her phone back down on the nightstand and collects her gun. She rolls out of bed, tucks a few pillows in her place, moves silently to her bedroom door and stands beside it, listening and thinking.
This door, her bedroom door, can't be opened silently. It creaks like hell, so if she goes through it she'll have to be ready to draw attention. There's an attic, but access is out there on the landing and, again, can't be operated silently. There's no alternate route to ground level other than jumping from the window, and someone has to be covering it. Even if she landed in the bushes alive, she'd still have to break the perimeter with a sprained ankle.
A better question than "Who?" is "How many?" She may already be straight-up dead, simply due to numbers. If the attackers tread cautiously and try to flush her out, she figures she can Home Alone her way through perhaps eight of them before running out of luck. If they rush the second floor and have armor she might be overwhelmed by as few as two, even with the staircase acting as a choke point. All of this, naturally, assumes that the attackers aren't anomalous. If they are, and they're not in the, say, thirty percent of anomalies which can be neutralised simply by shooting them in the centre mass and head, she may be fundamentally helpless even after the response team shows up. Which will be, at best, ten minutes from now.
A creaking. This damned house. Someone is coming up the stairs, making no effort to be quiet about it. A soft tread, though. As if they removed their shoes. Just one of them? That barely makes sense.
With five seconds' grace, Wheeler casts around the dark room for a second weapon. She knows there are knitting needles downstairs in the lounge and knives, good ones, in the kitchen. But she can't get to them. It's too late. The door's opening. It seems like the man's trying to say something as he comes in, but he only gets as far as "I— whulp," and it's done. He's flat on his face, cheek pressed into deep cream carpet, with Wheeler on his back pinning both his wrists with her knees. She sights urgently back down the stairs for a second; there's no one there. She prods him in his other cheek with the muzzle of the gun. "You speak, you die," she hisses. "You try to move, you die." She glances at the windows, checks the stairs again, listens intently. There's no sound. There's nothing to be seen.
The man is fifty, and lanky. He wears an expensive dark suit, tailored to his build. He has angular features, thick, greying hair and rimless spectacles, now quite possibly bent out of shape by their sudden impact with the floor. He wears discreet platinum jewellery: a wristwatch, cufflinks and a ring.
The two of them halt like that, a tableau. He makes no attempt to move, although he does look askance at Wheeler, as best he can given his dislodged glasses.
Wheeler asks, "Where are the others?"
"It's just me, Marion," he answers.
"Who are you?"
He says nothing for a moment, but his expression slowly, subtly drops. "I, ah. Well. Well, it really happened, didn't it? I always wondered."
"Who are you?"
"There is a monster which follows you around and eats your memories," the man says. "SCP-4987. You drip-feed it inconsequential trivia so it doesn't go after anything important. You watch game shows. The book you were reading just now. On your nightstand. It's a trivia book. Right?"
Wheeler says nothing to confirm or deny this, although it is true. At feeding time the entity manifests like a bright gold-white spot in the corner of her eye. It's gone now.
She's already put the rest of it together. It is all mind-bogglingly, insultingly obvious.
With a well-suppressed but still detectable note of dismay, she asks, "What's your name?"
"Adam," he says. "Adam Wheeler."

*

Obviously, she has the man detained.
She instructs her people to interrogate him — lightly — and to run deep background research on every word he utters, while for her part she stands far back from the investigation to avoid contamination. She resists the urge to interfere, particularly to visit "Adam" and personally demand answers. She goes to her office, curls up on the couch there and tries to catch some sleep, but doesn't succeed in any real sense.
Seven hours later a Foundationer knocks on her office door, bringing an inch-thick block of printouts and a paralysingly strong cup of coffee. Wheeler takes the drink first, accepting it as a kind of authentication step before letting the man in. She moves back to the couch and sits hunched over the drink for warmth, inhaling its fumes.
The man settles heavily into a chair opposite. He is a misleadingly stocky, perpetually unshaven individual, somewhere just shy of forty, and inarguably the most dangerous person on the Site. He is the Division's physical fitness and combat instructor and the leader of their solitary Mobile Task Force. His name is Alex Gauss. "They, uh," he says, "figured I should be the one to present their results. Even though I didn't research one line of it. 'Cause we 'get along'. Their words. Personally, I don't see it."
Wheeler stays focused on the coffee. "Who is he?"
Gauss opens the first page of the report, more for show than anything, then closes it again. "He's your husband. Every word checks out. There is limitless physical evidence. Half of the Division knows him socially, including me. I credit your diligence and adherence to protocol, but the bottom line is that SCP-4987 got hungry."
Wheeler nods. This assessment matches her own, pieced together overnight from gut reactions and analysis of the plain facts. Where the hell else did her name come from? She wasn't born "Wheeler". But she had to get independent verification.
She asks, "Has this happened before?"
"No."
"Could it happen again?"
Gauss shrugs. "You would know better than anyone."
"I would. I do. And I can tell you this: I have SCP-4987 trained to follow me at my heel. I feed it according to a strict regimen, it eats only the memories I say it's okay to eat. A rapidly progressive, universally fatal memory parasite made chronic and then domesticated. And now, what, it suddenly breaks training? That adds up?"
"If you say it doesn't add up, it doesn't add up," Gauss says, cautiously. "But speaking from field experience, anything can happen twice."
Wheeler has waited long enough, and takes a long pull from the coffee. She stares into the coiling steam, as if trying to see the future. "But who is he?" she asks again. "At this point, you know him better than I do. What's he like? Do you like him?"
Gauss grimaces extravagantly. This is the great-great-grandmother of all loaded questions.
Wheeler looks him in the eye and says, "Tell me your personal impression of Adam Wheeler. Direct order."
"…He's a nice enough guy."
"'Nice enough'?"
Gauss clicks his tongue. "I don't like him," he admits. "Personally. All that much. We're civil. But he will always be a little bit too smug, and a little bit too clever. He just… grates. Would I throw someone in a cell for that? No."
"Do I like him?"
"You—" Gauss begins, then stops. He looks away. And over time, a soft smile develops on his face, one which Wheeler doesn't recall ever seeing before, not in a working relationship going back years. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah. He's the one."

*

Full name: Adam Bellamy Wheeler. Born February 27, 1962 in Henge, Derbyshire, United Kingdom to Rosemary Leah Wheeler née Wizst and Jonathan 'Jack' Philip Wheeler. No siblings. Early education: Henge Church of England Primary School, Matlock All Saints Secondary School. Demonstrated great musical acuity from an early age. By age sixteen had begun to be recognised as one of the most gifted classical violinists of his generation. Attended the Royal College of—

Wheeler skips three pages.

—after sustaining a minor injury while on tour in ████████, he encountered SCP-4051, which had infested a wing of the hospital where he received treatment. SCP-4051 was protected by an unusual form of antimemetic camouflage to which Wheeler — like an estimated 1 in 145,000 individuals worldwide — was (and remains) immune. His attempt to alert authorities to the infestation's presence was intercepted by a Foundation listening station. Operative Marion A. Hutchinson (100A-1-9331), then a field agent based in—

Another page.

—resistant to conventional memory-erasure procedures. Hutchinson applied successfully for an exemption, arguing that even with his memories left intact it would be impossible for Wheeler to share the details of SCP-4051. They subsequently became romantically involved.

"Oh, they 'subsequently became romantically involved', did they? Tell me more, you featureless gray sphere of a biographer, I'm hooked now."
The biography is contentless beyond this point. Adam Wheeler's life spent touring, playing, lecturing and occasionally conducting, writing and composing is documented in exhaustive, pointless detail. He withstands background checks and surveillance, and consistently demonstrates himself to represent zero risk of leak. He eventually receives the extremely low clearance level normally granted to long-term Foundation-external partners of Foundationers. They get married. She takes his name, which she, reading, considers faintly unrealistic. Blah blah.
There is nothing about his personality. Nothing about their relationship. No content.
She remembers acquiring SCP-4051. There was no one there. She remembers nothing.

*

Up until the end of the third round of questioning, Adam Wheeler assumes good faith. He figures the repetition is a due diligence tic, a corporate procedural requirement. It's only when they start over from "What's your name?" with a brand new interviewer for the fourth time that he finally gets it: they don't like him, and they don't care what he thinks his name is. They're trying to grind him down, until he can't think, until he's just dust particles they can sift through for data.
He reacts badly to this realisation. He asks for his wife, and asks for his wife, and they ignore him, and they ignore him, and she persistently fails to appear, until it becomes a cold form of torture. The questions keep coming and nothing stops them, not answering truthfully, not not answering, not lying, not rambling off on tangents. They don't stop until he begins falling asleep in the middle of his own sentences.
He wakes up in a standard Humanoid Containment Unit, a stackable one-bedroom apartment with holographic fake windows, impregnable walls and extensive discreet modifications for the security and monitoring of anomalous entities. This one is on the first basement level, but he can't tell that. The bright quote-light-unquote pouring in through the main living area window is authentic enough to tan.
He wakes up on the couch, with a start, feeling creaky and dehydrated. He realises that he slept in his suit, and that his suit is creased. He hates that, that sensation of not looking his best, or at least presentable. That's going to gnaw away at him until he can find, at minimum, a razor and a change of shirt.
What woke him was the heavy metallic clack of the door unlocking. He looks up, rubbing his eyes. It's his wife. "Marion! Oh, my God." He leaps up and rushes over to meet her. She stops him a few paces short, with a gesture and a cold smile. And that hurts. It hurts more than anything.
So it really happened: SCP-4987 has bitten out the part of Marion Wheeler which cared about him. She wasn't absent because of some unrelated K-class outbreak. She just chose to be elsewhere, indifferent.
So he doesn't embrace her. He stands at a polite distance. "How are you feeling? Did you sleep?"
"I'm fine."
"I can tell you've had your coffee. Have you eaten? Come on, I'll make you something." The unit has a rudimentary kitchen area. He goes through and starts exploring the cupboards. "There must be something edible around here. Eggs and milk, at least. I'm ashamed to say I more or less fell asleep where I was standing when they put me in here, so I haven't had a chance to scout. Or do you keep the place empty, and the food arrives through a slot in the wall?"
Marion begins, "Mr. Wheeler—"
Adam shoots her a disappointed look.
"Okay," she says, "Adam. Please come and sit down. You're right, there's nothing in any of those cupboards."
He closes the cupboard and sits opposite her at the kitchen table. "Scrambled eggs on granary toast," he suggests. "With a lot of garlic in the eggs. That's what we both need right now. Particularly you, because if I don't make something substantial for you you end up drinking those wretched wallpaper paste milkshakes seven days a week. Or you skip the meal entirely."
"Adam. We've been married for seventeen years, is that correct?"
"Yes."
"I don't know you."
"That's fine," Adam says. "I doubt that that's going to be a serious problem. You've told me, many times, about your own people who've lost themselves in the work and had to bootstrap their own personalities a second time. You love watching it. It's like watching butterflies emerge from chrysalides. The best of your people can turn that around in ten weeks. Imagine how fast it's going to be for you."
"No," Wheeler replies. Her tone is clinical, matter-of-fact. "I'm afraid it's not possible."
"What's not possible?"
"I can't begin a new relationship right now. Certainly not something as serious as a marriage. You have nominal clearance; you know what we do. I have responsibilities. I do not have… 'time'."
"This isn't 'new'," Adam says, deadpan. "It's pre-existing."
"No," Wheeler explains. "That relationship is ended now, and we are somewhere else."
Adam stares at her for a long moment, thin-lipped and far from happy. He asks her:
"What do you remember?"
The question is so open-ended that Wheeler doesn't manage to respond verbally. She spreads her hands slightly, the gesture saying, "What?"
"You don't remember me," Adam says. "SCP-4987 also clearly ate the part of you which would care if you forgot me. And, additionally, the part of you which cares about brunch. 'What else have you forgotten?' would be a stupid question to ask, so instead I'm asking you, what's left? I want you to tell me everything you can remember."
"Everything I can remember?"
"Yes. From 1995 to right now."
It's still a farcical question at face value, and Wheeler's first instinct is to dismiss it as such, but she thinks again. She thinks, intending to genuinely try to answer the question. And she finds gaps. There's a dearth of specifics. It's like being asked to "say something" and immediately forgetting all words.
She says, "I remember… working."
And driving home, and then sleep, and then driving back to work. Big, hostile buildings. Drug regimens, containment procedures, endless piles of opaque numbers, personal fitness drills. Running. Calculating. Never, ever stopping calculating. She remembers, with unfair clarity, a large variety of extremely bad dreams.
And other than that, nothing. A huge, deep, ragged-edged black pit.
Adam says, "You remember nothing good, do you? Nothing good at all.
"When you come home, on the nights you make it home, you are ready to fold up. It has never been an easy job, but these past few years have been the worst they've ever been, because you're coming to the conclusion of something gigantic. You have explained to me how it is that you can never tell me, really, what it is that you do, without the act of you telling me killing me. And I — I couldn't stand that at first, and I still hate your job and I think it's a monstrous farce — but I trusted you in that. And I stopped asking. But I can tell, from the… rattle in your hands and the things you don't say, and the way you sleep, that there is some kind of war going on back here. And you're losing people to it. And you're almost at the end. And you're going to win.
"So I scramble your eggs, and I play the violin for you, and between us we hack out about three-tenths of what I would consider to be normalcy. Not because you can't do this without me, you could take the whole universe by yourself if you really had to, but: to blazes with that, you don't have to.
"It didn't happen instantly. But it happened pretty damned fast. We had music in common at first, Bach and Mendelssohn. We had tobacco in common and a mutual hatred of The X-Files. Then it was coffee and wine. And then after some time it became hiking, and birdwatching, and Perseid meteors. We like Bruce Lee flicks. We watch Law & Order and Jeopardy! and we read stacks and stacks of books. No, in fairness, it's mainly me for the books. You don't have the long-term time to spare anymore."
He pinches the bridge of his nose for a second. Any two people can find that much common ground. Just being in the same place for years doesn't count for anything. What do they have?
"We communicate," he says. "Better than anybody I've seen. We can be apart for two months while I'm on tour or you're overseas and snap right back and pick up a conversation from the word we left off. We are connected. We are in the same headspace. You'll see it all. It'll happen again, just as fast. You've just got to give it a chance."
Wheeler is almost there. She sees the shape of what Adam is describing. It's distant and unclear, but if she concentrates she might be able to bring it into focus. It worries her, for nebulous reasons she can't completely articulate, but she can almost understand how there could be room for it. How it could lock into her life as it currently exists, and still make sense.
But Adam just said something crucial. He said a keyword which means the marriage counselling session is over and this is now a situation. Wheeler can't ignore it. She forces herself to drop the other thread and seize this one.
"What war?"
And now Adam really doesn't know what's happening. "Good God. The war, Marion. I don't know how else to describe it."
"What war? How many people?"
"I don't know," Adam says. "There are names. Names you stop mentioning, and then you ignore me when I bring them up again. I assume there are reasons. I don't know the specifics. How could I know? Why don't you know?"
Wheeler races through the reasoning. The existence of a war computes. It confirms long-term existing suspicions. It could have been going on for years without her realising it. It makes sense to her that she could be fighting it, winning, even, and not know; managing her own memories or losing them in skirmishes. This certainly won't be the first time she's uncovered it. It makes sense that Adam, naturally gifted with the mental equivalent of a thick layer of blubber, could stand on the edge of the conflict and dimly be able to perceive it. And the Division — so understaffed.
People are disappearing around her.
"And what if—" she begins, and stops dead in the middle of the thought, as if the thought itself was stolen out of her.
"And what if we get back together, and—" she begins again, and this time hard instinct seizes her around the midsection and bodily hauls her back from thinking a thought which, it knows, would kill her. She's Wile E. Coyote, she's already run off the edge of a precipice into clear air, and thinking that thought would be like looking down.
She feels SCP-4987 moving around her, abstractly bound to her, a winking speck of glitter in her eye. "Something's wrong."
Adam scratches at his own eye. "Do you see that?"
"How can you see that?"
"I have a mild immunity to antimemetic influence," Adam says. He knows it's in his file and he knows Wheeler has read the file, but apparently it needs to be said again. "I can tell when something is fritzing with my memories. I can resist it. Up to a point. So, Marion, I was hoping to have a relaxed conversation over coffee and get around to this topic organically, but I'm going to have to skip to the end: I have the impression that SCP-4987 is trying to kill me."
"…No," Wheeler says. "That's not its behavior model. It doesn't sustain itself that way, by eating people. It eats memories. And it's never done this. Not to you, nor me, nor anybody. Not since the very early days. It's tame. It does exactly what I tell it to do. Even when I'm waiting, and I'm bored, and I let it eat my short-term, it sits and waits to be told to eat."
"Then what is it doing to us?" Adam is getting nervy, and won't let go of his eye. He stands up and backs away. "I would like it if we could figure this out quickly. We don't have a way to put SCP-4987 down."
There's a sound in Wheeler's mind, but not in her ear, like a distant chorus of baying dogs. She stands too, and moves after Adam into the middle of the containment unit.
She says, "It's trying to protect you."
"I— How does wiping your memory of me protect me?"
"I can't explain," Wheeler says. "And I can't explain why I can't explain. I don't fully know myself. There's an ███████████ ███████."
"A what?"
"You can't be here," she says. "You can't be in my life. You have to leave, or you're going to die."
"I'm not leaving you," Adam says. "Christ, that's why we did it in the end. Got married, I mean. It was scintillatingly obvious to both of us, very early on, that we were forever. But I wanted to get it on the public record. I stood up in front of everybody I respect and I swore to them that I would protect you. Forever!"
SCP-4987 is agitated. Wheeler feels it flitting around the room, incoherent, trying to tell her what it needs.
She says, with sudden actinic clarity, "I must have made an identical promise."
Adam doubles over, blinded in both eyes now. Closing his eyes does nothing, covering his eyes does nothing. The gold-white light is strobing for him, moving into violet. He panics. "Help. Help me. I can't see." He reaches out, unsteadily, for Wheeler's hand. She lets him take it and pull her close. The light doesn't fade. He clings to Wheeler for a few moments, and she holds on to him until he realises that SCP-4987 is completely within her control, and this is all intentional.
"You're going to do this?" Adam says. "This is the Foundation mandate, this is what your definition of 'protect' amounts to? You've got no idea what you're about to do to yourself. You don't even know me."
"I think I know," she replies.
"You will feel this for the rest of your life. Every day, you will wake up with a sick cold feeling in your stomach where there used to be a real life. And you'll wonder why."
"I'm going to win this war," Wheeler says to him. "I'll beat the universe. And then I will come and find out why."
Adam holds on to her for another long, long moment. He can hear the baying too, now, and he can even barely perceive what it is, far off behind the hill, that SCP-4987 is frantic about. That distant dot, that fleeting second-hand glimpse of the shape of it, far off, is enough to terrify him.
He has faith. He knows how fast Marion can put the jigsaw pieces back together, work against a universe which makes no sense to her, isolate the truth. He knows she can take the universe. But a sharp misgiving jabs him in the stomach and he can't stop himself saying: "And what if you lose?"
She kisses him. It's a stranger's kiss, there's nothing there Adam recognises. He breaks off, unsettled. It's a whisper now: "What if you lose?"

*

Wheeler exits the containment unit; she slams and deadlocks the door with a single movement. The heavy metallic crack makes the whole building shake.
There are people outside. Gauss, Julie Still and a few others, comparing notes. They look appalled.
"Fill in his backstory," she tells them. "He was never married. Relocate him to where I'll never find him, incinerate all the evidence, then report to me for surgical memory erasure. I'll do myself last."
Gauss looks as if he has an objection. She stares him down.
"My husband's dead," she says.

Next: Fresh Hell


Hello, and welcome to Historical Site-19. I'm your tour guide Alexandra, and you may call me Alex.
Before we begin, I would like to ask you to turn off your personal reality devices, or set them to Baseline Mode. Thaumiel Mode for those possessing reality-altering abilities and/or magical talents. This site has great historical value, but has a delicate nature because of uncontrolled anomalous activities in the past. Disturbances may cause irrecoverable damage, and those who breach this rule may be penalized.
All done? Good. Now we can begin the tour. Please follow my voice.
As you may know, Historical Site-19 is an important part of the Foundation history, and of the world history in general, to an extent. It functioned as one of the largest facilities back in the Age of Containment. Many great discoveries and innovations were made here, as well as great losses and regrets. We will be visiting some of these in our tour today.
We are now in the main hall of the site. The famous logo here on the wall is the original, as it was specifically extracted from the past and preserved with a Static Temporal Sink. You may now receive a map of the facility along with other related information by linking to HS19_Connection through compatible devices, organs, or metaphysical components. This tour will only be covering the Scranton Wing, the Atzak Wing, the Mechanical Labs, and finally, the Resting Area.
To better preserve the artifacts, we have relocated a number of important items from that period here. Religious items are not available, as they are mainly kept by respective churches and deities. Note that rearrangements of the items have been made for convenience purposes. Therefore, while the layout of the site was preserved, few items are in their original places or conditions. You may look up past and alternative iterations of Site-19 in the Timeline Observatory in the Xyank Wing once the tour is over.
Now, please step on the teleportation module, and we will proceed to the Scranton Wing. Please be cautious of the edges and remain within the platform. If you accidentally receive any injuries, up to becoming physically deceased, please proceed to the Medical Bay. The staff there will restructure your body. As Hume levels within the facility are strictly controlled, attempting to cure yourself is not advisable.
I see that there are no accidents. Let's proceed.
Before you is a prototype Reality Anchor, before such technology was sufficiently miniaturized. They were often accompanied by Temporal Sinks in usage, and played crucial roles in the Age of Containment. However, these earlier types weren't exact; some can only preserve information, while others cause further incidents. Despite these, they formed the technology bases of Reality Manipulators later invented.
In the next room, we can see the original Lang-Scranton Stabilizer, the invention of which lead to the discovery of Void Dimensions, or Red Realities. For those who are interested, you may come back here and take a personal journey into such a dimension. Both instructions and warnings are accessible through HS19_Connection. However, do note that your personal devices will not be functional during the experience.
Now, we will be moving across the Atzak Wing on the Transportation Pad. All on board?
Good. As is often stressed, the Age of Containment includes not only the containment of anomalies, but also the containment of information. Such containment of information was often done by the use of amnestics. I have generated an Amnestic Use Guide for each of you, which you may keep as souvenirs. They are handbooks used by Foundation employees back in the 21st century.
Please take a moment to look down below the Transportation Pad. We can now see a carcass of an eel-like creature. It is almost 1,000 kilometers in its full length, and cannot be shown in its entirety. The rest, including the head, are put into an extra-dimensional storage. Our Foundation predecessors once harvested substance from this creature, which was then refined into amnestics. The creature itself expired in the 32nd century. However, its head still possesses strong cognitive hazardous properties. Be advised if you would like a closer look afterwards.
We have now arrived at the Mechanical Labs. Again, the Mekhanite relics are not available here. However, what we will be seeing are the original workshops of the Artificial Intelligence Applications Division, or AIAD for short. This is my favorite part of Site-19, the reason you may be able to guess.
The first few generations of Artificial Intelligence were designed and developed by the Foundation and the Maxwellism branch of the Mekhane Church independently. Over the centuries, the technology integrated. Past corporations like the Prometheus Labs and Anderson Robotics have also contributed through either magical practice or the mapping of organic brains. It is through all these efforts that the AIs we see today are formed, and later accepted as members of society.
You may be able to reach me again here when the tour ends. I will answer your questions then, if there are any.
Now let's take a shortcut to the Resting Area. Shortcuts like this exist throughout the site, and you can travel quickly back into the main hall or to this area.
This place was once the staff lounge for the Foundation personnel, and you are able to access recreational items they once used. This vending machine accepts only a form of old currency, which is provided in the jar next to it. The flat box on the table will provide a traditional food item popular in the 21st century. It also customizes the food according to the specific taste of the being who opens it. You may rest and enjoy yourself here.
The tour is now coming to an end, but I would like to give brief introductions to a few wings we have not covered. You will be allowed to have your reality devices back on in the Keter Wing, which features items and creatures considered extremely dangerous by the Foundation in the past. You will be free to interact with their constructed copies, and all harm done will be restored once you exit the building. The Memetics Wing showcases some of their more traditional uses, as well as the original file of Mr. Sorts' Understanding Memetics; while the Antimemetics Wing presents a hollow shape of a non-existent god. I personally recommend the Anart Wing where past classics are on display. These were created by the forerunners of artistic revolution before anart creation became common.
You're now dismissed from the tour, and are free to explore other parts of the site.


Another email from Briten. Fucking condescending arsehole. God, it's been so fucking tempting to just plaster his face everywhere with “LEADER OF THE CHAOS INSURGENCY” or something.

The following document is to be immediately destroyed after reading:
Twenty-six of the twenty-nine of Site-3403's staff have been terminated by Task Force Alpha-One following Site Commander Lauren Harris's direct refusal of orders to terminate Security Guard Raymond Trask after his potential contraction of SCP-9083, “He Of Many Minds”. The termination of the three surviving personnel shall occur upon their relocation.
Need a good cover story, kid. Two days. You did real good on the last one, kid, so keep it up.

BEWARE THE BLOODSKULLS
The Chaos Insurgency have struck again, mercilessly slaughtering the practically defenceless Site-3403 down to the last man. This time, they have used their brutal gang of murderers known as the Bloodskulls for their distinctive method of securing entry: having a point in the centre of your forehead worn down to the bone. The leader of this terrible team is none other than Lazarus Wyrm.
Soft-spoken, polite, and covered in tattoos from head to forehead, Captain Wyrm is the leader of the Bloodskulls. In a previous life, Wyrm worked for the Foundation; however, the man grew an unhealthy obsession with SCP-9347, “The Vortex”, and purposefully submerged himself in the hopes of becoming a God. However, Wyrm's plan both failed and succeeded, as security guard Pablo Foxenflower managed to retrieve him before the transformation could be complete; as a result, the man was both incredibly smart, strong, and durable… but he was now corrupted, and would stop at nothing to finally become a God. He soon broke free of his restraints and escaped from the facility.
Most will never see anything of Lazarus Wyrm except his name and his crimes, will talk to their mates about what a jolly big meanie he was, and then go back to talking about some other mundane shite.
But some will dig. Quite a few, actually, especially those who had lost friends in the “attack”.
And it's my job to give ‘em answers.
Lazarus Wyrm would be born to Thaddeus and Imperia Wyrm, his siblings Dickon, Auric, and Severa. He would attend the entirely real Red Rose primary school and be taught by the entirely fictional Finbar O'Reilly. After showing repeated interest in both philosophy and physics, he would graduate with a joint degree age twenty-one. He would then apply for a position at Nova Sciences, a Foundation Front ran by the (unfortunately) 100% real and 100% dickhead Doctor Jake Briten. He would then slowly rise through the ranks until he met Pablo Foxenflower, and he became the Foundation's villain for the next six months until Foxenflower rammed his head into a jet engine.
But it's never that easy. Thaddeus Wyrm's parents were Hiram and Waverly Wyrm, while Imperia would be the child of Cellaria and Cecil. Thaddeus worked as a butcher, while Imperia ran the finances for him. Backstory upon backstory, lie upon lie, nothing personnel upon nothing personnel… on and on it goes, until even the most desperate of diggers will turn back, fully convinced that Lazarus Wyrm was a real person. Anyone who digs deeper than what I have created will fall victim to a rather convenient paradox: anyone insane/sad/bored enough to spend all of their time convincing people that Lazarus Wyrm doesn't exist is too insane/sad/boring to be taken seriously.
There are 32,084 members of the Chaos Insurgency, and I created all of them with nothing more than an “Evil Name Generator” and an overabundance of military jargon that armchair generals pleasure themselves to. They spend their time trying to “take over the world” for unspecified reasons and occasionally massacring a Foundation Site that's getting a bit too close to insubordination or that is manned by morons that can't keep a lid on anomalies. Sometimes the GOC or some other group finds themselves victims of this mysterious organization, and occasionally they topple governments. A very busy organization, the Chaos Insurgency is, especially one made up of nothing personnel.
See, most people in the propaganda division of the Foundation have exactly one maxim: the simpler the lie, the better. The guy who taught me the ropes — that twat I mentioned earlier, Jake Briten, he told me this stupid story about a total moron who had to think up a cover story for this guy who got killed in a containment breach. Guy spent ages coming up with this elaborate backstory about how the guy got killed in a car crash when a drunk driver rear-ended him. Spent all this money on crashing a car and mangling the body and doing all kinds of stuff… only, turned out he didn't have a drivers' licence. Because he was blind.
But isn't that just so… boring? The rest of the propaganda division, they're complacent with just slapping on “sudden heart attack” and calling it a day. Morons. No, I aim for something greater. Lies can do so much more than cover up mistakes. I can have squads of heavily armed soldiers terrified of an organization that doesn't exist outside of a few newsletters and my imagination. I can have people of science cursing creatures and personnel that are nothing, were nothing, will always be nothing. I can have impossible anomalies that could destroy the world hold back in fear of dust and whispers. And I —
“Sorry, kid, looks like you're staying late tonight.” Briten dumps a sheaf of papers on my desk. “Need ‘em done by tonight.”
“Of course, Doctor Briten. I'll get on them as soon as possible.”
God, I really should make the bastard a CI spy or something. I've worked for the prick for three years, he still can't remember my name. Hell, nobody ever does. That's the downside to working in the shadows; you can never attack from the front, never see their face crack in fear when they realize you- the one who they belittled and punched around and humiliated — was the one to kill you.
But I'm not even a name to him. To any of them.
I'm just the Nothing Personnel Kid.