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"…Here I Come"
Even in Togenkyo, I exist.

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2021

January
Site-79: Yumegēmu, Tokushima, Japan

Director Allan McInnis plunged through the office on the balls of his feet, swung around a heavy wooden desk like it was a pommel horse, and dove under it. There was less than an inch of clearance between the bulk of the desk and the floor, but the fan had nevertheless already blown a few sheets of paper through. He stared at one of them with horrified fascination; the words formed one at a time, sharpening, clarifying, the paper turning glossy before his eyes.

IKIGAI

System: Nintendo 64
Developer: Togenyko
Publisher: Unknown
Release Date: 12 February 1999
Society has checks and balances to prevent things like Togenkyo from happening. Your school teachers encourage you to discover your talents. Your guidance counsellors help you put those talents to work in a career. Your career is a leaning and success curve, onward and upward in knowledge and accomplishments. Togenkyo's story is a perversion of that journey. Togenkyo is what happens when you're terrible at something, and everyone tells you to spend the rest of your life doing it, and you do spend the rest of your life doing it, and you never get any better.
Plodding along since the Atari and NES era, this company has produced a series of stinkers obviously designed to pay the bills for Ikigai, a developer's baby which ended up sucking the life out of its proud papa until his bankrollers did him a favour and strangled it in the crib. I don't know how much of his "vision" he accomplished before the jobbers rushed in, but the results aren't pretty. I was promised an action-packed hack-and-slash by Togenkyo's in-your-face marketing, and what I got was a frou-frou JRPG with obviously tacked-on horror elements. It's not worth your money. It's not worth my time.
I won't waste another second reviewing it, because it's not a video game, because Togenkyo is not a video game company. Togenkyo is a deluded idiot, and Ikigai is his suicide note.

A series of scarlet lines began cris-crossing the text, and McInnis realized someone had scribbled over every word in red pen. He realized this at about the moment when the musical sound of glass being crushed underfoot announced the arrival of his pursuer at the door.
He didn't dare breathe. He relaxed his body against the frame of the desk so his arms wouldn't tremble with the effort of holding his heaving chest aloft. He was afraid to even close his eyes, as though the white-clad IJAMEA agent might be able to hear the sound of a single blink.
A shadow crept beneath the desk. The man-or-monster knew where he was hiding. It had to be raising its razor-sharp naginata over its head. It—
BANG.
A spurt of blood splashed over the edge of the desk and onto the floor beside him.
BANG. The desk slammed into him, sending him sprawling into the red-stained carpet as the IJAMEA agent fell hard against it. McInnis scrambled to his feet and saw Kuroki standing in the doorway, the open elevator shaft yawning behind him, smoking pistol in his hand.
The agent was lying on the floor, pike still clutched in its linen-wrapped fist. It shuddered and groaned. It hauled itself up on top of the desk with one hand, and the shining white light from its cyclopean visor momentarily blinded McInnis.
BANG.
This final shot struck it clean in the spine, and it roared with pain and fury. The naginata came down into the carpet, slicing into the floorboards with deadly ease, and the creature used it as a crutch to regain a standing position. Kuroki's trigger discipline was excellent; he kept the gun levelled, but avoided making the tell-tale clicking sound which would have revealed that its magazine was empty.
Malice radiating from its expressionless face, the IJAMEA agent turned around and rushed towards the doorway.
"Kuroki!" McInnis screamed. "One side!"
And he barrelled into the creature from behind.
McInnis struck his foe centre mass, and shoved him hard into the hallway. Kuroki leapt out of the way, and McInnis dropped his weight, falling onto the broken door that lay on the floor as he shoved with all his might. The IJAMEA agent spun as he fell into the open elevator shaft, swinging his nasty weapon in one final vain gesture of hatred. It sliced cleanly through a dangling cable, and the severed bottom half followed him down into the abyss.

They both lay there for a moment, taking the chance to catch their breaths. Kuroki sat up first; he jammed the spent pistol into its holster. It was no longer recognizable as any sort of tool; it had nearly morphed into a solid grey block by the time he stood up and pulled McInnis to his feet. "It's gonna get dark here real soon," he said. "We need to head downstairs."
They were able to make good time, not having to worry about their pursuer hearing their footsteps. It was almost certainly invulnerable, but a four-storey fall would at least have knocked the wind out of it.
"It," muttered McInnis. "What are we calling it?"
"Shinoda," Kuroki replied. "That's what the IJAMEA report said."
McInnis frowned. "If it's an IJAMEA agent, why are all its thoughts about a failed video game company?" He showed Kuroki the review, which had briefly been illegible before they'd moved one storey down.
Kuroki shrugged. "Maybe it's an IJAMEA agent and a video game developer? That dismissal notice said he was returning to civilian life, right?"
McInnis barely avoided snapping his fingers. "Yes. Yes, that's it. The newspaper article in the lobby said the founder was serving in a special forces unit. That was a euphemism for IJAMEA."
"Hmm." Kuroki swung open the door to the second floor, and they emerged gingerly from the stairwell. "An IJAMEA reality bender founds a video game company. Is that what all this is?" He gestured at the dim grey hall of computer terminals and filing cabinets around them. "Are we in one of his video games?"
"Let's find out." McInnis walked up to the nearest cabinet and pulled open the top drawer. "Assuming all these files are his memories, we should be able to learn something."
"Or we could go downstairs and turn on the elevator, like we planned."
McInnis shook his head. "You took me upstairs to see the stairs blocked because you knew the dream-game wouldn't let our first route be the correct one. Do you now think it'll let us defeat Shinoda if we don't know his tragic backstory?"
Kuroki's mouth worked for a moment before he replied. "That's actually pretty clever. You're right." He took the filing cabinet at the end of the row, pulling open the bottom drawer. "Why do I get the feeling this isn't your first rodeo?"
McInnis smiled grimly. "I've been chased through a Site by a monster before."

The filing cabinets in the hall were a bust, but they had better luck in an adjoining office. One desk offered up an abundance of expository goodness: an old video game cartridge sitting on a printed email. McInnis nudged the cartridge aside and examined the printout first.

To: ten.oyknegot|adonihs.amuos#ten.oyknegot|adonihs.amuos
From: ten.dwd|nimda#ten.dwd|nimda
Date: May 23, 2000
Subject: Training wheels off

Shinoda,
I don't know if you get our core brand proposition, but it's not "normal video games." I gave you two million bucks back in '81, and you've given me a steady stream of respectable, functional, not-at-all anomalous shelf-warmers. Where's my magic fox bullshit?
You're still upset about what happened with Ikaji, or whatever, and I get that. I really do. But the bank account don't care.
You say you've been working on the real project. I want to see proof. I want to see some magic fox bullshit, and I want it to blow my goddamn mind. You have one week.
- DWD

"Magic fox bullshit." McInnis picked up the cartridge. It was in remarkably good condition, considering its surroundings, minus two odd tears on the label.

"There's our boy," he muttered, handing the cartridge to Kuroki.
The chief looked confused. "I thought we were playing Hide and Seek."
"Maybe it's a sequel."
"Hmm." Kuroki pulled open the desk's top drawer. "I dunno. You said Ikigai was this guy's baby, right?"
"That's what the review said. And he was apparently planning it as far back as '81."
"So he's mad that it didn't work out. He's still in mourning. He's got control of this scenario, somehow—"
"Magic fox bullshit," McInnis interjected.
"Right, Kitsunetsuki. He's bending reality, and he's taking on the form of the protagonist from his dream game… his dream game… Ugh. I don't know what's a revelation and what's just obvious, at this point. I need sleep." Kuroki rubbed his eyes.
"I thought you said you didn't need sleep. In the game."
"I mean my brain needs sleep. I need time to process. I can't figure this shit out."
McInnis wiped his brow; it was getting warm in the office. "Alright, basic principles. He's chasing us. He wants something. What do we have that he wants?"
Kuroki leaned on the filing cabinet. "I assumed he wanted me, at first. I assumed he attacked the Site to get at me."
McInnis raised an eyebrow. "Why would he do that?"
Kuroki waved the question away. "Later. That's not the point. He's been playing, toying with me all this time. He probably could've killed me half a dozen times, but he held back. He's not holding back with you. He wants something from you, specifically. Either he thinks you have something, or he thinks you know something."
McInnis considered this for a moment. "Hide and Seek. Who are you seeking, Shinoda?"

"Why hasn't he tracked us down yet?"
"Hmm?" said Kuroki. They were both sitting on the floor of a trashed common room, brushing rotten flower petals off a veritable carpet of random printouts.
"We've been looking through this dross for ages. Why hasn't he come up to attack us?"
"Reading is a free action."
"What?"
Kuroki smiled. "In survival horror games. Doesn't matter if there's a zombie lunging for your neck, you're usually allowed to keep reading the file before the teeth sink in."
"Let's not test that theory." McInnis rubbed his neck. "I hate this, you know."
Kuroki nodded. "I know. Hey, what's this?" His attention had been attracted by a few unusual splashes of colour on one of the printouts. McInnis crawled over to take a look.

Transfer Order

Subject: PoI-417

Threat Class: Minimal

Origin: Site-03-6

Destination: Site-79

PoI-417 is Daniel Dunn, CEO of Group of Interest Arcadia, captured by MTF ETA-6 ("Presented In Color") in late 2015. Thematic reorganization of non-critical assets has prompted Dunn's transfer to Site-79. Security clearance level 4 personnel will arrive shortly after the transfer to inspect his accommodations.

"This…" Kuroki looked confused. "…is bogus. This never happened. We don't have Dunn in custody; we don't even know if he's still alive. And this isn't a real form."
"These files are Shinoda's memories," said McInnis. "If that's true, he thinks it's real. He must have seen it somewhere, or somebody told him."
"Which means he thinks Dunn is here, at 79." Kuroki cleared his throat. "But so what? Is he here to kill a competitor? To rescue a friend?"
McInnis sat back on a cushion of rustling paper. "Unless Dunn is connected to Togenkyo somehow."
"Togenkyo?"
McInnis blinked. "Yes. Togenkyo." He pulled the Nintendo 64 cartridge out of his pants pocket, and pointed to the logo. "Shinoda's company. I saw their name on the splash screen for Hide and Seek when I first came in."
Kuroki's eyes were wide. "Togenkyo is the peach blossom spring, from Japanese and Chinese mythology."
"Okay?" McInnis picked up one of the shrivelled petals. "Yes, these are definitely peach blossoms."
Kuroki reached out to grip his shoulder. "No, you're not listening. It's not just that. Togenkyo is paradise. Know any other names for paradise?"
McInnis blinked again. He groaned. He looked down at the sheet. "Foreign investment capital. Magic." He looked up at Kuroki. "DWD."
Kuroki nodded. "Dan 'Wolf' Dunn."
They both spoke at the same time, though they didn't say precisely the same thing. McInnis said, simply, "Arcadia."
Kuroki said "Fucking Arcadia."

It was all clicking into place, but they didn't have time to revel in their discoveries. The room was getting darker, and some of the papers were turning transparent. Kuroki snatched a handful and stood up. "He's moving away from us. He must know we're reading the files, and this is what he's doing about it."
"What is what he's…" McInnis stopped in mid-sentence as he noticed the gathering gloom around them. There was a wall of black at the end of the hallway, and it was grinding inexorably closer. It was rippling, roiling like a pot of boiling water, and as the faceless white shapes with their eerie glowing eyes came into view, they both took off at a jog in the opposite direction.
"Arcadia funded Shinoda's company," McInnis grunted. "He named it after Arcadia. He was grateful."
"Until Arcadia ruined Ikigai," said Kuroki.
"Which is why Shinoda is looking for Dunn."
"Who Shinoda thinks you're here to check on…"
"…so he thinks I know where Dunn is. Because someone told him I would?"
"Because someone sent you here to die."
McInnis didn't know what to say about that last obvious fact, so they jogged the rest of the way back to the stairwell in silence.

The generator room was on the first floor, immediately outside the exit to the stairwell. It was the first good luck they'd had, and McInnis was immediately suspicious of it. He stood watch while Kuroki tried to activate the elevator, and rifled through the last few scraps of paper they had to explain their present situation. He dropped them one by one, as their contents proved worthless, and they winked out before striking the floor.
He was still staring at the final sheet when Kuroki finally emerged from the generator room. "All set."
McInnis passed him the paper, and watched his reaction carefully.

TOG03/ARC71/IJA58

Status
Lost

Demand
High

Value
High

Availability
None

Identifier
Project KOTODAMA

Description
Item is an electronic apparatus capable of bending space and time in the user's proximity, creating in effect a virtual reality environment. Negotiations were nearly completed when IJAMEA agents disrupted a demonstration of the item by its creator, resulting in the accidental destabilization of local reality in the Japanese town of Toyomachi/Yumegēmu. IJAMEA remanded both the item and its creator to Foundation custody, making the cost of retrieval prohibitively high. File closed.

Marshall, Carter and Dark, LLP

Kuroki no longer looked capable of shock, but he still seemed surprised. "Is this…"
McInnis nodded. "A reality-bending video game demonstration gone wrong."
Kuroki's hands were shaking, so McInnis took the paper from him before the rustling attracted unwanted attention. The chief put one hand on his own forehead and exhaled. "Arcadia funded Togenkyo to make an anomalous virtual reality game."
"Then ruined Shinoda's dream project."
"So he finished the anomalous game in private, and tried to sell it to MC&D for revenge."
"And Dunn caught wind, sold him out to IJAMEA…"
"…and they tried to bring him in, because he wasn't supposed to be using his abilities…"
"…and the demonstration went wrong…"
"…and that created the Nexus." Kuroki leaned heavily against the door. "What the fuck." He looked at McInnis. "So wait, Shinoda was in our custody all this time? And somebody gave him his VR headset and set him loose on 79? That doesn't make sense. I would've known if he was being kept here. We didn't have any John Does in comas."
McInnis shrugged. "Then he was being kept at a different Site, and someone brought him here. You said you thought someone was trying to kill me. Do you want to explain what you meant, now?"
Kuroki started in shock, and dropped the paper. His finger was bleeding; he had a paper cut. "He's coming."
They headed for the elevator; they could hear the machinery which ran it humming merrily within the walls. "Shinoda's project is letting him control the Nexus," said McInnis. "And he's managed to spread it all the way up to the Site. What's to stop him from expanding it across the entirety of Japan? Or further?"
Kuroki clapped him on the shoulder. "You, me, and the password makes three."

"Bugger." It was all McInnis could do to avoid pounding the wall of the elevator with his fist.
"He cut the cable," Kuroki muttered. He looked like he might cry. "When he fell. He cut the cable. We saw him cut the cable."
"We've been keeping track of too many details." McInnis tried to project a hope he didn't feel. "Maybe the stairs won't be blocked, now? Dream logic?"
BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG
They fell to their knees, hands over their ears, as the sound of the cable slamming belatedly into the roof of the elevator reverberated through the car like a drumroll announcing the arrival of their enemy.
Together, calmly, they stood up and walked back into the hall. The figure in white was strolling towards them, leisurely, like a pacing panther. A blizzard of peach blossoms whirled around his spectral, almost luminescent form.
"The cable's cut," said Kuroki. He swallowed. He screwed up his face and closed his eyes, taking deep shuddering breaths. "That's a detail." He opened his eyes and looked at McInnis. "It's a detail."
McInnis nodded.
Kuroki leaned into a runner's crouch, and launched himself down the hall towards Shinoda. The heavy blade swung out, and Kuroki dropped down to slide under it on the filthy tiles, scattering a flurry of pink petals. The IJAMEA agent roared in fury and attempted to bring the naginata around, but the hall was too narrow and he caught it on the wall, digging a heavy gash into the light plaster.
Shinoda looked away from Kuroki. He looked directly at McInnis.
He began to advance.
"Hey!" Kuroki yelled from behind him. "You wanna mess with the new guy, or you looking for Dunn?"
The mummified monster spun in place, his massive frame quivering with rage, and the two men shot off down the hall away from the elevator. McInnis lost sight of them around a corner, then ducked back through the double doors. He pressed the button for the top floor, and nearly wept as the doors shut and the cable-less car, deprived of the detail bestowed by Shinoda's presence, began to ascend.

He watched the elevator display count up the floors, painfully slow, and resisted the urge to start jumping up and down. 2. 3. 4. The lights became flat, coloured bulbs, and no longer cast shadows. 5. 6. 7. Almost there. The lights were just dots on the elevator wall, black and red. 8. 9. 9.
9.
The lights disappeared entirely, and he felt the panic eating at his stomach lining. The walls of the elevator seemed to bend and waver, and for an instant they disappeared and all he could see was black in every direction. Then they returned, for another instant.
Then they disappeared again, and did not return. He looked down at the floor, and saw that it, too, was wavering. It was translucent, and through it he could see…
He blinked rapidly and tensed all of his muscles, trying to control his brain and body by brute force. His every instinct screamed at him to look away, and against all odds, he didn't.
Through the floor he could see a mass of pale, writhing bodies, filling the elevator all the way down to the ground floor. They rippled across each other like maggots crawling on a corpse, their chalk-white flesh vibrating with the rhythm of unnatural breathing. The walls of the elevator shaft were white, now, bulging out and disgorging more naked, faceless figures at a terrific rate. A few more seconds, and they would reach the elevator.
He knew what he had to do, and he knew he could do it.
He took a deep breath, and waited.
They lapped over the edges of the now completely invisible floor, and he felt it disappear. He plunged into the roiling column of bodies, lost in the tangle of their flailing limbs, and tried to imagine the pool at Eton. Tried to breathe. Tried to breach the surface.
Surrounded by ten storeys of impossible grasping cadavers, Allan McInnis swam to the top floor.

"Where is he?!" Shinoda screamed, his white light burning a hole in Kuroki's back as he ran. "Where is Dunn?" From the sound of it, his feet were barely touching the ground.
Not fucking around now.
The security chief slammed open the stairwell door, which wasn't strictly necessary; it swung open as though it had been freshly lubricated. He shouted back over his shoulder: "Where else would the CEO be?" He bounded up the steps, two at a time. "We're going straight to the top."

McInnis was barely able to pull himself through the open shaft door — thank god it had been open! — before the column of corpses collapsed back down to the inky depths. Kuroki was leading Shinoda upwards, he had to be, because what started out as a flat grey rectangle was suddenly filled with flat white rectangles, which suddenly became crude computer consoles, which suddenly became the communications centre he'd thought he'd never reach.
He leapt across the room and started scanning the machinery. When he saw it, he grinned. When he hammered out a few simple commands on a flat-keyed keyboard, which became deep-keyed and mechanical as his fingers struck each key, and a bevelled black box became a widescreen computer monitor with a very confused face on it, he actually laughed out loud.
When he had the second copy of the password in his head, and he barrelled back towards the shaft, he suddenly remembered that the car was on the first floor, the bodies were gone and the stairwell was blocked.
The password entry terminal was on the first floor.
I hope you're headed down, Kuroki. McInnis took a deep breath, and spoke into his microphone.

McInnis was talking in his ear. McInnis was talking gibberish. Kuroki's mind suddenly felt a little more crowded, and he immediately realized what had happened.
No. Why? No! The one-time password was in his head. McInnis had to be trapped in the comm center; it was on Kuroki to get back to the terminal now. That would have been fine, if he'd been running down the stairs instead of up them. He could hear the heavy footfalls behind him, slow and regular.
How the hell am I gonna get around him?
He leapt across the next landing, pulled himself up the railing of the next flight of stairs…
…and smacked hard into a pile of stone and metal. He fell back on his ass, ears ringing, and realized he was looking at the back ends of the filing cabinets which had arrested their progress earlier.
He was certain this wasn't the same staircase, but that didn't matter anymore. As he struggled to his feet, head swimming, he saw the muscular, wrapped figure ascending the stairs blade-first.
"Are you finally going to do it, Shinoda?" He had nothing left but words. He was so very, very tired. "Are you going to shed blood in your paradise?"
"Et in Togenkyo ego," the spectre spat, and pinned him to a filing cabinet straight through his heart.

McInnis stared at the red text hovering over the crown moulding of the comm centre.

When he finally noticed the sound of rubble being shifted in the adjoining stairwell, he could barely muster the urge to care.

Ready or Not...

The Time After Time Password

Spread the Word


Image is CC 3.0: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Osborne_1#/media/File:You_are_standing.jpg

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February 28th, 1982
Osborne Computer Corporation
California

"We have no cash!!!"
Adam Osborne paced back and forth, chain-smoking clove cigarettes and weeping profusely. Behind him, his accountant was frantically working on the world's only Osborne Executive prototype. Squinting at the three-inch screen, the accountant's head fell onto the desk.
"We're ruined, sir. As soon as word got out about the Executive, nobody wanted to buy the Model One anymore. I don't even know if I'll get paid for this."
Stubbing his last cigarette out in a desk ashtray, Adam lamented his inevitable doom. "But how? It literally only exists in here! Nothing was leaked! This makes no sense."
"Knock knock!"
Adam and his accountant's heads rose out of their imaginary troughs of misery. Nolan Bushnell was there, standing in the hall outside their now-open office door. He had a ratty sock puppet with a nametag reading CHUCK which he was using to entertain Osborne's children, who were supposed to be in school.
"Yeah, sorry about that. My bad. I just thought it was so cool when I broke in here for drug money a few weeks ago, had to go tell a friend, then a few more friends, they tell their friends, I went on the news disguised as you… well, you know how these things go."
Adam's temples were throbbing. "You son of a bitch. You've ruined me."
Nolan reached to Adam's daughter, Peggy, and covered her ears. "Hey, man, watch your mouth. There's kids here."
Without thinking, Adam took a swing at Nolan, hitting pay dirt. The sound of the impact on Nolan's nose was akin to a bridge breaking over the Ohio river, up to and including going down like a stone.
But only for a moment.
Rising back to his feet, Nolan wiped the blood oozing from his nostrils on his sleeve. "Adam… didn't you ever read the Bible? Don't you know that he who was first, will now be last?"
Backing up, Adam raised his palms defensively. "Look, Nolan, I was angry, you hurt me but, but I didn't want to hurt you."
Nolan threw the rat puppet to the ground, revealing a concealed revolver. 'Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!' went the gun. Adam's accountant was riddled with bullets. Adam and his children screamed in the cacophony, the little ones fleeing down the hall. Frozen, Adam curled up into a ball, shaking and gasping for breath. The ashtray on the desk flipped over to shower him in smokey debris and light accountant viscera.
Nolan began fishing in his pocket for more bullets, squinting down the barrel at Adam, but at that moment the phone on the desk began ringing. Weapon now half-pointing at Adam, Nolan grabbed the receiver and shouldered it, tossing the trailing cable behind him. "You've got Bushnell. Yeah? That score for how much? You know I'm there, Rudy! Get the boys and we'll burn the house down. Yeah. However you want. Just don't forget the long raw bars again. Seeya."
Hanging up, Bushnell picked up his now-bloodstained puppet, not even looking at Adam. "Okay, don't move, I'll be right back." A few steps away and he was gone.
Adam was alone in the dark now. He didn't know how long he'd been in the fetal position on this scratchy office carpet. Even on that, he was 50/50 and hoping on actually being dead.
Adam… all of us will die someday.
"This isn't what you promised. You said we'd be remembered for all time!"
Do not fret. You will be remembered. Your failure shall be so stunning, to stand as an example for all time.
So it was that the Osborne Effect came to be, much to its namesake's chagrin.


Image is public domain

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« For Your Eyes Only | The Living Daylights | Diamonds Are Forever »

June 18th, 1991
NeXT Computer Headquarters
Somewhere Resembling California

Don Valentine, ninth-dimensional space admiral and venture capitalist, admired the ultraviolet mural emblazoned on the side of NeXT's stylized corporate campus building.
Beside Don stood Steve Jobs, CEO and Chairman of both the company and a vast dimension of collective consciousness. "Yeah, we're the only company in the valley- and this is still the valley, technically- that offers same-sex couples equal benefits to the heterosexuals."
"Ah, that's nifty. But I'm sure the insurance paperwork must be a nightmare."
Steve threw his hands into the air. "Oh, Don, Don, you have no idea. Let me take you inside to meet the gang."
As they walked in, one of Don's floating eyes lingered its gaze on the image for a few moments. "But why is it ultraviolet?"
The first thing a visitor would notice was that the space inside the building was far larger than that outside. Steve and Don knew the way, as they walked and talked a few new managers floated in the endless void below, struggling to get a grip.
"Well, honestly it was at the request of our community members. They didn't really want to advertise their presence to… the wider culture, so to speak, but we didn't want that to mean we couldn't show off how insanely brave and great they are, that we are proud of them."
"Always a sucker for a counter-culture, you haven't changed a lick, have you Steve?"
"You know me, Don. Always thinking different, often thinking broke, but thinking better all the time all the same."
They were approaching a tanned surfer sitting at a desk. Soldering a circuit board, they hardly even glanced up as Steve and Don approached. "Must I suffer another heckler's veto already, Steve?"
"Not yet, Buster. I got someone I want you to meet. Don Valentine, this is Keaton Bicknell, one of our top engineers and a damned good dancer." Steve clasped his hand on Keaton's shoulder, almost making them flick their iron's wick.
"I wish you would stop saying that." Glancing up, Keaton nodded at Don before returning to their work. "A pleasure. Now, Steve, if you want me to have something to show you today you're gonna have to let me get back to it."
"So we shall!" Steve was already halfway out where the door would have been if there were any offices (other than his own) to speak of anywhere. Hustling to keep up, Don left a protoplasmic trail behind which, luckily for the night crew, evaporates with almost no lingering odor.
"Neeeext up, we've got a lovely little lady down from a little ol' state called Louisiana, give it up foooor…"
Stopping on a dime, Steve slammed a hand over his mouth. Pearl Higgins was on the phone, and even he knew better than to interrupt her. Mouthing 'another time', he tiptoed out of range before backpedaling back into a near sprint. "Okay, looks like everyone's busy today… who… might, be… free…"
Striding at full pace, Steve ducked between NeXT's community members, but all were otherwise occupied. It's almost like we're here during business hours. Steve chuckled.
Don was gasping for Don's proverbial breath. "Alright, Steve. Give me a second to rest, do you ever not go a mile a minute?"
"Not on your life pal. Can we talk investment in the down time?"
Don shuddered ambivalently. "You've got a nice building, and seem like you're taking care of your people, but what's the endgame here?"
"We want to put a ding in the universe."
Sighing, Valentine manifested a checkbook in Don's gaseous manifold. "I suppose we have had good times. Anybody have a pair of hands I could borrow to make out a check?"
Steve smiled, and held up a pen. "That'll do, Don. That'll do."


Nina Angelica Weiss is sixty years old. Most days, she moves like she's at least ten years younger due to a strict regimen of physical fitness— one that she scarcely needs, now.
She walks through the corridors of Site-87, under armed guard; technically a prisoner now, due to what I did to her. I walk beside her, a gnawing dread on the back of her neck. She swipes at me as if I were a common mosquito, and I make an appropriate buzzing sound.
A containment alarm goes off. I am there, too, making a grown woman have a panic attack. Dr. Margaret Reese has a degenerative condition, one unknown to her colleagues, one whose scent can be masked by the aromatherapy machine she has with her at all times. That machine has just failed, and those in the laboratory with her are choking on the rot coming from her body, screaming that she has poisoned them, all while I keep my finger on the power button, making sure it cannot be turned back on.
I have to experiment more with Dr. Marshall Grant, an entomologist. Arthropods are feared by most, but for things like him, I have to improvise— he values the insects and spiders he keeps, so I take the form of an insectovore. He brandishes a butterfly net of all things against my amphibian body— though I feel a shock against my tongue. Electric nets, what will they think of next?
In his office, Tristan Bailey, the interim director, watches this and more on monitors behind the desk. I permeate this town, from the failing wi-fi network ensuring that the remote learning service fails, to the pile-up I have caused on League Street, where nobody can see those in the other cars.
Sinclair, somehow, survived. But this does not concern me— I was too rash, trying to kill her. Better to let her live in pain and grief and fear. But for now, my attention is turned back to Nina Weiss.
Nina is thirty years younger than she was two weeks ago. She's healed up nicely, can walk without assistance. But there is one thing she fears— one thing all people fear, I understand now— that will consume her. The fear of losing control.
She enters the restroom, the one female guard accompanying her. It is cleaner and more sterile than the rest of Site-87, and there are no cameras. So when she exits the stall and checks herself in the mirror while washing her hands, Nina Weiss is the only one to see herself recoil in horror from the array of gray hairs that have appeared in her scalp.
You are my linchpin, Nina Weiss. Your fear will consume this town.

Baker Books had closed down over six months previously, due to concerns regarding the limited amount of space within and the need to quarantine. It was still technically in operation, in that the owner sold books through the internet, but the physical storefront was largely vacated, with the door boarded over.
Robert Tofflemire sipped at a can of Coke as he waited for Alison to appear. She had told him to meet here at noon, and it was 11:55. Had this been a decoy, a way for her to avoid him? He had almost shot his partner in the face yesterday, for Christ's sake. She probably didn't even want to see his face—
"You'll rot your teeth with that." Alison appeared next to him, looking at the front of the bookstore. "I have no idea why she insists on meeting around books. None whatsoever."
Robert quickly pulled up his mask and discarded the can in a nearby trash bin. "Who is 'she', exactly?"
"You'll see in a moment. For now… we need a way in." She signaled for Robert to follow, making her way to the end of the block. Main Street didn't really have individual buildings on it; rather, they were all fused together in a giant block, with maybe an alleyway or two between them. It was impossible to tell where one building ended and another began, unless you looked at the fire escapes.
There was one behind Baker Books. Alison climbed on top of a dumpster and pulled down the retractable staircase, extending her hand to Robert. "Stay close to me."
"Not sure that that can support the both of us…" Robert climbed onto the dumpster, and took her hand. "But okay."
Alison started up the staircase. Robert followed, and within two steps, reality… wobbled. He had to catch himself on a wall that suddenly appeared; what had once been a metal staircase leading upwards was now a wooden one they were descending. He clutched his head; dizziness overtook him. "What just… what just happened?"
"Basically? We teleported using a staircase." Alison led him downwards, onto the ground floor of Baker Books. It smelled of paper and dust and leather in the way only proper bookstores can, despite it having been closed for six months. There were some books on the shelves, still, and the sound of someone turning pages came from an area of the stacks not visible to either of them. "Come on. That's her."
"Who is 'her'—" Robert rounded the corner, still dragged along by Alison. A woman stood there, tall, wearing a cloche hat and a purple scarf, her grey business suit blending into the background. She was leafing through a sci-fi novel he didn't recognize. "Who… who is that?"
"My new boss, in a sense." Allison sighed. "She's Nobody, really."
"…as in Capital-N Nobody?" Robert's head twisted between the Nobody and Alison. "Aren't they supposed to wear a fedora? And be a guy?"
"Anyone can be a Nobody." The Nobody turned towards Robert, snapping the book shut. "She calls me Sunshine, but I am also known as The Sister. There are a multitude of us; The Narrator here makes thirty-six."
"Alice… you're… a Nobody?" Tofflemire turned to Allison. "I'm seriously confused."
"Not yet I'm not." Allison clenched her hand. "But… if I try to do what I did to Sinclair again, I will be."
Nobody nodded. "Both you and her are… aberrant to reality." She turned to Robert. "You should have stayed dead, but instead she managed to resurrect you by essentially looking God in the face and telling him to write a better story. Local reality has been degrading since."
"I don't follow."
"You haven't noticed how… hardly anything has happened in town lately?" Allison rubbed the back of her head. "How all of the anomalies are fairly minor or routine or otherwise don't bear mentioning? How the Black Autumn last year was a bunch of scattered nonsense that everyone seems to have forgotten about?"
Robert looked between Allison and Nobody. "Okay, I have noticed. What's up with that?"
Nobody shook her head. "There's been a dearth of events in this Nexus in part because… reality itself is indecisive." She looked at Allison. "It doesn't know what to do with her, or you. You're both glitches in reality that never should have come about, and—"
"We're giving the universe writer's block, basically." Allison scratched the back of her head. "I know, I know. It sounds stupid, but—"
"Pataphysics is stupid." The three of them spoke at the same time.
"A crude metaphor, but it works well enough." Nobody looked through her book. "You both have too much power. Her especially— reality doesn't know what to do with her."
"They gave me an offer." Allison played with her hair. "I can either write away my abilities and yours. Or…"
"You can join them." Robert frowned. "Well, just… write them away, then. You made me immortal for, like, half an hour. You should be able to—"
"If I write them away, then I won't be able to save the town!" Allison tugged at her hair. "I'm stuck between a rock and a shithole and there's no way out, Bob."
"There always is." Robert shook his head. "We just— we have to find it."
Nobody held up her hand. "Talking of saving this town… I should let you get back to that. Best of luck."
"Wh—" Allison began, only to find herself walking out of the entrance to Baker's Books, the boarded-shut door slamming behind them. "Ugh!" Alison threw up her arms. "I hate it when she does that!"
Tofflemire was beside her, looking uncharacteristically done with the world. "Why don't we just find this damn thing and throw it into the Pit, let Sloth beat it to death with his stupid shovel?"
"I'm not sure it has a physical form to throw in. Plus, only way we can get to it now is using the First Footpath, and that only works on the full moon." She frowned. "Halloween's a full moon this year, isn't it?"
"Whatever." Robert rubbed his head. "Come on, the Bottomless Pit is serving cheesesticks for their special today, and I'm damn hungry. Plus, they don't judge you for day drinking."
"Hard to believe it's actually kinda classy now. Used to be a trucker bar back in the 80's. Don't they still have lot liz—" She paused, making her way to her car. "How good do you rate your flirting, Bob?"
"Don't tell me that you want me to pick up a lot lizard."
"I'm telling you that you're going to pick up a specific lot lizard."

The parking lot of the Bottomless Pit is scarcely occupied. Men and women sit in semi trailers, on their phones, waiting for food and beverage to be brought out to them. Some of them sleep in the compartments of their cabs, taking a mid-day nap as the amphetamines wear off.
True to the word of Sinclair, I have trouble affecting them— they are passing through. I am bound to this Nexus, where I have been drawn to since my escape in Arkansas earlier this year. Anyone that does not call this place home cannot truly be affected.
There is one woman on the lot— she lacks an eye, just as she has always lacked an eye. She is a construct, and though she blends in better with humanity than her colleagues, Sinning Jessie is still very much not human. She is a thoughtform, a Legend, born of the fear of sex and disease. Others avoid her (quite literally) like the plague— though COVID is not sexually transmitted, nobody wants to be in close contact with a lot lizard.
Nobody except Robert Tofflemire. His glasses reflect the Legend's face as she adjusts her fringed hair to cover up her missing eye. He attempts to proposition her, only to get immediately shot down. He persists, and I whisper in her ear— 'this man is strange, you do not know him, and he will hurt you and others like you'.
I contain my laughter, barely, as she pulls out a can of mace and douses him with it.

"Son of a bitch." Allison sprinted out of the car over to Robert. "Dammit, Bob, what did you say?"
Her partner was incoherent, laying on the ground, writhing and screaming from the millions of scovilles in his eyes. Allison dragged him away, pulling him to the restrooms outside the bar. The drinking fountain there hadn't been shut down, in flagrant defiance of state mandate. She put Robert's eyes up to the flow of water and pressed down on the switch, before glowering at Sinning Jessie. "What the hell?"
The Legend looked at the can of pepper spray in her hand, and then at Robert. "Y… you're Plastics People. I remember Jasper talking about you." She frowned. "I… I got so scared for a moment. I'm… I'm sorry."
"That's been going around a bit." Allison sighed. "We've exhausted all leads on our end. Whatever this is that's destroying the town… we're stumped. We need help."
"And… I kind of need yours." Jessie scratched the back of her head. "I… haven't seen Jasper— that is, the Goatman, since the start of the month. I'm kind of getting worried about him."
Allison frowned. "He… he was in Site-87 not even two weeks ago. But… I haven't seen him since." She frowned. "Is that normal?"
Robert grunted in pain, before adding, "H-he… fuck that stings. N-normally we g-get a few reports of-of him causing chaos at Halloween parties around this time. A-a few parties, but no sightings of him."
"You don't think he went rogue, do you?" Allison looked at Jessie. "Is… is that a thing you guys can do? Turn against the town?"
"…after the deaths at Camp Krakow, we swore to never harm the citizens of the town in any meaningful way. That includes you, unfortunately." Jessie played with her hair. "I don't really know where to begin looking for him, either. We've looked at his usual haunts— Koch's Hollow, Baby Bone Bridge, even the Bone Heath and Grave Bog."
"H-Haven't looked everywhere," Robert coughed. "Fuck, do you have shampoo or something? T-that can help flush eyes."
"I'll get some in a bit. What do you mean, 'haven't looked everywhere'? We know this town like the back of our hands."
"T-there's one place that you never go. Our greatest fuck-up of the 70's."
Jessie paused, and looked between him and Allison. "Ah, fuck."

Jasper Phineas Sloth, also known as the Goatman of Sloth's Pit, has been contained. This is a fear that is common among all things— being put in a cage or a room or even being locked in your own house, unable to leave. There's so much of that going around that it almost tastes stale.
Jasper thinks that he is in a Foundation facility— one I'm all too familiar with. Dr. Owings interrogates them, but it's not the real Dr. Owings. He died of a heart attack when I escaped my cell. I was so simple-minded back then.
"October Mmmmph, 2020. Beginning testing." Dr. Owings looks at the Goatman, its white fur stained red by flesh, constantly flowing blood from wounds inflicted on it as part of its containment procedures— all completely necessary, he understands. "Now, SCP-9328421, what is your name?"
He has been in here for three weeks. He began as defiant, but then I stole something a thoughtform values more than anything else: their image. It was by sheer happenstance that Nina Weiss saw me as the Goatman in her bottomless pit, imprinted the image of him onto my being, but it gave me an alibi, and an in.
"J-Jasper Sloth," he stutters. His fur is white, but his face is now more man than goat. It is that of a nineteen-year-old, pale-skinned and sallow, no doubt affected by some disease on the Christmas when he died in 1890. "W-who are you? What's an SCP?"
"Well, SCP-9284171, you are an anomaly. And we contain anomalies, keep humanity safe from them."
"Am I dangerous?" His voice is dulled, like a lobotomy victim. I wonder if he can even tell up from down.
"Oh, very. You killed a dozen people on your way in here. Regular slasher you are, SCP-84719."
"Why do you keep changing my number?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about SCP-8371458. If you say something like that again, we'll have to cut off a foot— for testing purposes, of course."
"…okay."
He is dulled to the point where I can cut off his fingers. I have done so a dozen times, but they grow back, because he is still the Goatman, and the Goatman always has ten fingers. Still, I snip at them.
"Now, let's see how well you write without your thumb, SCP-38421741."
"Yes, sir."

The Camp Krakow Memorial Park was a simple, solemn place. A metal totem pole (replacing the gore-covered wooden one as of early 2016) stood at the center, surrounded by steel plaques bearing the names of over fifty men, women and children (mostly the latter) who died in 1976, as a result of the Foundation's sheer incompetence. Markers show where the buildings of the camp once were. The lock on the utility shed was programmed to unlock at sunset every night, to let out the guardian spirit waiting within, to protect the now-dead children from the nightmares that killed them. Beyond that was wilderness and woods, the rotting remains of cabins, and the long-since-vacant showers.
"None of us ever go here." Sinning Jessie swallowed as she exited the back seat. "It's… painful. The things in the camp are contained, but… they like to taunt us. Poke and prod at us."
Allison frowned, looking at her partner. "You ever go here? Besides the Mandated Visit?"
"Once or twice. Got called to a possible anomalous animal sighting in the woods." Tofflemire opened the trunk of the car and withdrew a pair of rifles, handing one to Allison. "Three hours reading and memorizing every name on the memorial for orientation was bad enough."
Alison kept her rifle pointed down at the ground as she approached the perimeter of the park. She stopped at the entrance, gooseflesh popping up all over her body, her head swimming with a sudden rush of adrenaline. The park looked completely normal, but somehow, Alison knew that if she stepped into the park, she would die.
"It-it…" She swallowed. "Bob, something's wrong. There… there's something wrong with the park."
Tofflemire stepped next to her, looking around, feeling his arm. "I feel it, too…" He frowned. "You… do you think this is where it makes its home? The things in the camp, they're… birthed from the anxiety of children…"
"Maybe we should call for backup."
As if in response, a long, bleating scream of pain came from somewhere deeper within the park, close to the woodland, followed by a series of sobbing sounds. The two agents ran into the Memorial Park, their fight-or-flight responses telling them to choose 'flight' at every step.
Shadows darted between individual blades of grass. Alison felt something scratch at her ankles, trying to trip her, and a chainsaw roared in the distance. Robert heard the familiar laugh, wet, cruel laugh of an old, rotting man, and smelled oozing decay on the air— was his leg actually sinking into the ground, or was he imagining it?
"The shed!" Alison yelled, her eyes shut against an unreal, screaming wind. "We gotta get to the tool shed and break it open!"
Robert cracked open his eyes, and immediately shut them— for an instant, he was back in Site-19, and his former partner was begging to be shot. "They shouldn't be this active during the day!" Robert stopped in place, reaching for his phone. "Helen! Indicate direction of Asset 87-K-03 relative to myself!"
His phone chimed, and replied with: "Asset 87-K-03 is approximately ten meters to your north-east."
"North-east, which way is north-east?" Robert and Alison spun around, trying to orient themselves in the blinding fear. The wind turned into a horrid buzzing.
Alison grew stiff. The buzzing— memories of her childhood, of sticking grass down a yellowjacket nest, of the swarm that followed, of the car ride to the hospital, of not being able to go into the backyard for weeks because of the pesticide her father sprayed. The buzzing she heard then was the exact same as now.
And so, she ran straight into it, dragging Robert alongside her. She felt the venom enter her body, and she still strode on. She felt the biting wasps at her eyes, but she still walked. She swallowed her fear and felt her dread burn as she walked through the unseen swarm, and felt her hand against the lock on the maintenance shed. She guided Robert's hand to it.
"Holy shit." He grinned. "How—"
"Figured if it was trying to keep us from here, that's where it would be." Alison winced. "Fucking… open it, before I get some kind of… autophalctic whatever."
Robert felt at the keypad of the lock, and typed in the clearance code. The doors opened, and there was the sound of a bear growling. A rush of air and fur burst from the shed, and the buzzing, the pressure, the anxiety, it all vanished.
The two of them opened their eyes; Alison had some welts on her, but nothing severe. She picked at them, frowning. "That… is not a great feeling. Ow."
"Like looking right into the Pit." Robert shuddered. "I… wonder if that's why it came here. Because of what you see when you look into the Pit. Your greatest fear."
The two of them looked around the park. For a moment, it was silent. And then, another bleating scream, beyond the camp— in the woods.
Every year, Camp Krakkow had named its cabins differently. In 1976, they had been themed after the Zodiac. Neither of them were surprised when they figured out the screaming was coming from the ruins of the Capricorn Cabin.
The two of them stepped inside the rotted wooden hull, and found what seemed to be a man. He had odd patches of white hair on him, and what may have been stumps of horn on his head. One eye had an hourglass-shaped pupil, while the other was a normal, human eye in a shade of brown. The two of them saw a trace of Jackson Sloth, the town's founder, in his face.
The man recoiled from them both, curling up into a ball and screaming the way only a goat could. Robert put down his weapon and approached the man, who he now realized seemed to be wearing an orange Foundation jumpsuit. "What the hell? Alice, are you seeing this?"
"That… that's the Goatman?" Alison frowned. "He… god, he looks like something ate him alive. Let's… come on, let's get him back to the car."
"How?" But even as Robert asked, looking around. Then, he spotted it— what might have been the only piece of unrotted wood in the whole cabin, just long and wide enough to be used as a backboard.
The two of them carefully loaded the Goatman onto it, and over the course of a painful half-hour, made their way from the woods, back through the park, and to their car.

"Jasper!" Sinning Jessie screamed as she saw the broken form of the Goatman. "Oh, god, what? What happened to him? He…"
Alison and Robert put him down on the grass, with the former taking his pulse and putting a hand under his nose. "He's breathing. Pulse is good. But… he won't stop screaming."
Sinning Jessie reached out to touch her fellow legend, and grabbing his hand and whispering something into his ear. Color returned to his face, and he sat up, clutching his head. "What… what happened? Where am I?"
"…are you the real Goatman?" Alison's hand went to her rifle.
The man on the plank stared at her as his other eye grew an hourglass-shaped pupil. "What kind of a question is that?" He stood, unsteady, the jumpsuit melting away into a pair of suspenders. "Of course I'm the Goatman! Who else would I be, Richard Nixon?"
"…you were never at the Site this month?"
The Goatman opened his mouth to speak, before he started to frown. "I… don't think I've been… anywhere this month. It's… hard to remember." He rubbed at his regrowing horns. "Ugh. I have a headache."
Robert looked at Alison. "I… I think we need to call for backup. We're out of our depth, here."
"We can't."
Robert turned to Allison and frowned. "Why not? We have phones, and there's a radio in the car. Let's just call someone."
Allison tugged at her hair. "I— I don't… I don't think… S-something's wrong."
It took several moments for Tofflemire to feel it. It felt like a narrator had lost the ability to describe their work effectively, like a cash-grab sequel, like all the lustre had gone out of a work that had been written for almost a decade, and the author wanted to roll it up into the trash. Robert wanted to do a dozen illogical things at once. This town was a ghost town anyway, who would ever want to read about Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin?
Then, reality snapped back into focus, and the three of them found themselves on the grass, the world spinning.
"What…" Allison panted, "The hell… was that?"
"I don't know, but I have a feeling every Narrative Fluctuation Detector north of Nebraska just blew a fuse." Robert sat up, clutching his hair. "It… it felt like reality… lost the plot." He looked around. "Wait, where's Sinning Jessie? And— and the the Goatman? "
In response to the latter question, a young man sat up by Robert, groaning. Fur was already starting to regrow, even as he complained about having a "Worse headache than… damn I don't know an analogy!"
Jessie was nowhere to be found. Allison got up to where the thoughtform had fallen, and picked up a pamphlet off the ground. It was printed on old paper, and bore an image of a woman riddled with disease, dressed in the clothing worn by stereotypical ladies of the night in the late 1800s. A slogan on it read:

MEN OF WISCONSIN:
Watch for SINNING JESSIE, THE LADY OF THE NIGHT
Whose SYPHILITIC LIPS will ROB YOU of your MANHOOD!

Then, there was a sound like radio static, and Allison found herself holding the hand of the woman who had accompanied them here. Sinning Jessie looked disoriented, and terrified. "Wh-I-ah-wha—"
"What the hell was that?" Allison asked again.
The Goatman sat up, dazed. "…I think someone just literally rewrote reality."

It takes twenty subjective years, but Jasper Phineas Sloth no longer suffers, or thinks. A bit of his essence remains, in the memories and minds of the people of Sloth's Pit, and the Foundation's files. Perhaps it will be enough to resurrect him some day.
Camp Krakow is a place that has been sucked dry of fear, it has been so thoroughly scrutinized and revered— it pained me to put Jasper's body even close to there, let alone let it hang in the park itself. Even then, I cannot linger to enjoy their shock upon seeing the broken form of a legend— I have other matters to attend to.
Nina Angelica Weiss sits on her hospital bed. I do not open the dozens of doors between the entrance to Site-87 and the infirmary, but I step into her room instead, sitting beside her. "You look distressed," I say in the voice of Jasper Sloth.
She looks up at me, confused, perhaps thinking she's dreaming. She holds up a strand of her hair, now grey. "I'm getting old again. Don't even get time to enjoy being young." She shakes her head. "At least they're going to give me back my clearance. So, that's something."
"Hmm." I frowned. "Nina, I am… deeply connected to the Narrative of this town. Maybe I can do something to help."
"What?" Nina snorted. "Are you going to write me to be eternally young and director of this site? For all I know, you could be whatever this thing is that's apparently been feeding on the town."
In response, I begin to Narrate. "Suddenly, Nina Weiss felt a warmth going through her hair. As she inspected it once more, she found that the grey streaks that had suddenly appeared had just as suddenly disappeared. She looked at the Goatman, and said—"
"How did you do that?" She looked between me and her hair.
"I am the son of Jackson Sloth. Father was not the only Narrator in the family." I smirk. "I can rewrite you to be young, Nina. To be Director. But I need something from you in return."
"…what?"
"Halloween's in three days. I'll tell you then. For now…" I begin to narrate. What comes out of my mouth are not words as much as they are thoughts, sensations, feelings. Commands. The Nexus itself is alive, and it has a fear that I am exploiting— the fear of a Bad Story. Someone getting a magical solution to all of their problems is one of the worst stories you can have.
When I am done, Nina Weiss, sixty years old but not looking a day over thirty, sits in her office on the 4th floor, sipping at a cup of tea and looking at the leaves outside. The expense reports for the quarter are looking better than ever. A Leafer Mantis starts swearing at her, and she shuts the window on it. It is a beautiful day, and nobody is the wiser.
Three days. Plenty of bad stories can be made in that time.

«Out of Character, Out of Body | Hub |Conflict Resolution...»


Image is CC BY-SA 2.0 and sourced from Flickr album "Vintage Handheld and Other Electronic Games

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« You Only Live Twice | For Your Eyes Only | The Living Daylights »

April 13th, 1974
Atari Incorporated, Engineering Office
California

Steve Jobs and Nolan Bushnell stood shoulder-to-shoulder, hunched over a glass display cabinet. Inside there was an orange slab of plastic with four colored buttons and a new calculator screen. Nolan beckoned towards it like a wizard gestures around a hat which may or may not have a rabbit in it.
"Go on, give it a whirl."
Steve frowned loudly. "Is… this what all the fuss was about? Why I came in on a Saturday?"
"Come on! It's an arcade game in the palm of yer hand. What's not to love?" Nolan grabbed the machine, tossing it between his hands and pressing random keys without actually turning it on. "Personally, I could play with it all day."
"Right… well if that's all, I-"
"Okay! Okay, okay, that's not it at all, I'm just excited. This thing probably won't even come out for years if it does at all, but look! It's here right now, you could play with it, have a great time, hate it, throw it into the wall, but it's only you and the machine and there's none else like it in the whole wide world!"
Nolan threw himself into an expectantly open jumping-jack pose. Steve took a step back, and crossed his arms.
"So what's your point, bossman? Why does it matter to me, that I have to trek all the way here because you're excited about… Touch Me?"
"The point is, just because you're waiting for something to happen doesn't mean you can't also have it right now, at least a little bit. Come on. I'll show you a little more about what I mean." Nolan moved to grab Steve by the arm but only managed the cuff which was still enough to half-drag, half lead the boy out of the room.
"Have you ever heard of Arcadia?"
"Is that the name for your next phone book alphabetical-order branding trick?"
"No!"
"Something to do with phreaking, or another group like the home-brew club?"
"That's three strikes, my boy! You're out!"
Steve snatched his stretched sleeve out of Nolan's ironclad grip, and dusted himself off. "Look, Nolan, Woz and I are really busy with our computer stuff this summer and I really can't be here on wild goose chases every weekend because you want to show me something. It's not fair. You're my boss, and-"
"Look. It's not my fault you think eating fruit means you don't shower. It stinks, and I only mean that literally. I also only have heard it secondhand, lord knows I can't smell a goddamn thing, not after the whole Second-Havana-19 disease got me shook up. But you know that."
"I didn't come here to be insulted. I think I'll be going now, Nolan."
"Hey, hey, shhh, it's alright kid, it's real this time. I promise. Right through this door here, and you're going to see I wasn't blowing smoke." Nolan gestured to the door they'd happened to have stopped in front of. It looked almost like any other door, apart from a faded and almost imperceptible logo spray-painted in stencil overtop it. One letter, "A".
Steve reached for the door handle, before pausing. "Nobody in here is going to make comments about my smell?"
Nodding, Nolan reached out to prepare and hold the door open for him. "Not a soul. I got you on the night shift, didn't I?"
"You did. Thank you." Opening the door, Steve found himself in a room almost identical to the one Nolan had been showing him before. Only instead of a color-matching gizmo, there was a monochrome screen atop a rat's nest of wires and silicon. It flickered to life, a ghostly visage slowly appearing into view.
"Greetings, Steve. I am The Ghost."
Stepping forward, Steve examined the mess of machinery powering this thing. "This shouldn't work. Why do they call you that?"
"Because all of us shall die, some day."
"… What is Arcadia?"
"Stay with me here, stay awhile, stay forever, and I can show you what you're made of."
Steve thought about it, and decided he liked how that sounded. So he stayed. Outside, Nolan grew tired of waiting after awhile, eventually leaving his vigil in favor of forbidden drugs.
They never met again.


Image is sourced from the public domain.

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« Live & Let Die | You Only Live Twice | For Your Eyes Only »

Thank you!

Welcome back to Apple, Steve!

Apple Computer Campus
Fourth of July weekend, 1997
California

"It's not you, Gil. It's me. And the board. And Yars' Avenging Warlocks. Really, we all want this to happen except you. Is that clear now?"
Steve Jobs was standing in the half of the boardroom which still stood as it had been. A laminated table, some fake plants, and a few dog-eared industry rags pumping up Apple's future prospects. The unlucky CEO, Gil Amelio, was clinging to a rocky outcropping as he dangled hundreds of feet over a pulsating orb floating in dimensional space. It was bluish-green, approximately the size of the EPCOT golf ball and 100% liquid plasma. Its menacing aura was warping time and space to draw Gil slowly, but relentlessly, harder to join it below.
Gil blinked as the wind whipped his eyes and screamed against the void. "This is fucking crazy, Steve! This isn't who I thought you were gonna be!"
Chuckling, Steve started dropping the stuff on the conference table onto Gil's head. "Did you really think someone like me would be satisfied just going from monochrome tombstones to shiny cubes? Have you ever even tried thinking?"
"But why am I getting dragged into it?" Gil's face was momentarily obscured by last June's copy of Consumer Reports, which he quickly swiped away into the void below. "I just run your old company, Steve! I'm not into this kind of shit! I just found out what Buddhism was last week!"
"Apple isn't just a company, Gil. You agreed to more than using the private jet when you signed the contract. Scully and Spindler would have told you the same if they could."
"Is this how you fire people? Let me outta here, Steve! You're not even on the board! I run this company, let's play by the rules, please! I have a family, Steve!"
Steve's gaze was hardening. "Your ship is sinking, Gil. There's a hole in the bottom of the floor. What's your last move?"
"Anything, Steve! I'll get us pointed in the right direction! Just let me go!" Gil's shoes had been pulled away as soon as the chasm opened, and now his left sock was just barely clinging to his toes. The belt around his waist was hanging on for dear life.
"That's a stupid answer, Gil. Goodbye." Steve perched his sneaker on the tip of Gil's nose and stomped hard. Watching as the flabby body tumbled down to its doom, he pushed his glasses up and fished around in his fanny pack for his CD player. Staring at it for a few moments, he tossed it into the void too, before turning away as it inversely imploded into a small brown orb.
Every board member was in the waiting room, each of their faces was ghastly pale. The sound of Steve clapping raised everyone's blood pressure up another notch. "Alright! It's a done deal. Gil has voluntarily stepped down as CEO, with tremendous grace. Now, I think there's a lunch for us in the conference room, so let's step out. Gil'll be joining us later, if he's hungry."
Steve laughed, staring at the room until they all started laughing with him.


A soft blue sky hung over the streets of Paris, France. A gentle wind, funnelled by the twisting streets, ruffled the street awnings of the bustling restaurants. Every so often, when streets met, there would be a little square. Quaint little fountains or statues centred in a small courtyard, surrounded by the bustle of tourists.
O5-13 sat on a small wooden bench in one such intersection, watching as people passed by. Although, in Oneiroi West, "people" was a loose term; this was a dreamscape after all. Occasionally fights broke out between some of the weirder looking characters, though Thirteen mostly attributed this to pure Oneiroi, who had become bored of existence. Back before he'd become stuck here, he believed that these pure Oneiroi were the reason certain dreams were so chaotic; but now, in here, it seemed a bit more complex than that.
Despite all the commotion, Thirteen was enjoying himself. Places like this helped him switch off and forget about the Foundation; pretend that he was just somewhat normal, experiencing craziness from the outside, rather than from within.
For a brief moment, everything stopped in place, a sudden calm in the storm, fists frozen mid-swing… before suddenly resuming. Due to the nature of Oneiroi West, if the dreaming person woke up, the dreamscape had to be shifted to another host. But for places like Paris there was often an abundance of hosts; it only really mattered in niche worlds. Stuff like this fascinated him as a researcher, though it had become almost normal by now.
Seeing a couple of pure Oneiroi head towards him, he stood, letting them take the bench. Whilst he himself could be considered one of the pure, they treated him as a visitor, an inferior to them. He didn't mind, it made his walk easier.
As he headed down the cobbled streets, the smell of many different food cultures mixing in the air, he heard whispered conversation behind him. He assumed it was nothing to do with him as he was no different from the many other travellers. Continuing to slowly wander the streets, he picked up a distinct sound, the echo of some well-kept shoes on the classical cobbles, seemingly followed by the whispers he'd heard earlier.
As the shoes came closer, Thirteen moved aside to let the figure pass, only for said figure to fall into step and keep pace. As a member of Oneiroi West the concept of strange usually wasn't really used, due to the huge variance in appearance, but there was something "off" about this man.
The entity was dressed in a nondescript long black felt jacket, with a simple T-shirt and jeans below. Its face was hidden behind a black mask, bearing the golden number "1" on its cheek.
"You are O5-13, correct?" The voice was rough, yet almost calming. A gentle fatherly tone at odds with the appearance.
"Indeed, though I prefer Dr Ark. How can I help?"
"I'm Phaedrus, just wanted to talk."
"From a complete stranger, that sounds rather suspicious. I'm afraid I won't make a very good ransom hostage, if that's what you are after?"
"No, no, sorry if I caught you off guard. Your activities concerning the archiving and better containment of anomalies interest me."
"Well, I wouldn't quite say that, I give people a hand every so often." Thirteen didn't think the Foundation had another member within the dreamscape with that level of clearance, but he supposed it was possible.
"Don't worry, I know about your dealings with the Ethics Committee."
"Dealings makes it sound like something underhanded, I merely support and encourage their growth."
"Meaning you're rather upset at the recent turn of events, correct?"
"You aren't an agent of Eleven's, are you?"
"No, no. And even if I was, Eleven is currently experiencing… issues. He's the one least likely to investigate you."
"Hmm, I see. Are you threatening me with the same issues if I don't comply with your demands?"
The figure let out a muffled laugh. "You really are suspicious of me, aren't you? I guess it comes with the job. What if I was to tell you that your noose-tightening analogy was surprisingly accurate?"
"How did yo—"
"That's the wrong kind of question. Sorry."
"I— I'm not quite sure what you mean by that analogy. It was a worst-case hypothetical scenario."
The figure gestured towards a small, secluded bench hidden in a little alley cloaked by shade. They had been walking for a while and the crowd had thinned out significantly. Thirteen cautiously took a seat, glancing at the person beside him.
The stranger reached into his coat, causing Thirteen to flinch.
"Relax. Take a look at these."
Thirteen accepted the proffered three photos. Scenes of devastation, bodies scattered around the wreckage of buildings buried in newly formed craters. The skies a fiery dark red. Men and women in white lab coats lay in piles, limbs twisted to unnatural angles.
"Two questions. Where did you get these photos from? And what went wrong here that is relevant to me?"
"First, those images are of an Earth extremely similar to yours, closer than neighbours you could say. Second, a group of humanoid anomalies escaped, one of them went rather berserk, unfortunately. They didn't just stop at one facility."
"I see. Why are you telling me this then?"
"We need a hand to prevent it. I can see why you wouldn't, and don't, trust me. I will be in contact in a few days."
The figure turned to leave, flicking something into the air over his shoulder. Thirteen instinctively grabbed it.
"If you wish to contact me, repeat the phrase magnete lapide."
With that, the figure disappeared, his outline slowly fading from view. Thirteen fingered the coin, a shiny silver centre ringed by gold, bearing the letters "AV." He stared thoughtfully into the air, before opening a Way back home. He had much to think through, and whatever happened this week, he was sure it would be interesting.

Two days later.

"Attention all onsite MTF units, please report to the south wing of the facility. I repeat, that is all MTF units to south wing. Breach in progress."

"Hey commander, what's happening?"
"Five unrelated humanoid anomalies breached at the same time, one seems to be a minor reality bender."
"Why are we here then, we deal with mainly objects, right?
"I think they just want the extra manpower; we are gonna need to herd them towards the specialists."
"Right on."

O5-7: The Ethics Committee is your pet project isn't it, Thirteen? Four of those anomalies were under your purview. What happened?
O5-13: Rather rich, given you voted to slash my budget and cut back on my staff. I rather hope this was a little eye-opening for you. Also due to your "decrease in overall Committee interaction", only one of those actually had a dedicated Ethics personnel assigned.
O5-5: That's enough of pushing your own agenda. One, do you know what lead to the breach?
O5-1: From what I heard, the reality bender overloaded the SRA stationed outside his cell, causing it to explode and weaken the door. He seems more powerful than the researchers previously thought.
O5-2: All sentient beings tend to become more powerful under stressful conditions, correct?
O5-7: Standing up for Thirteen, are we?
O5-13: Two is merely pointing out known phenomena, Seven. What's gotten you so antsy.
O5-2: I believe the researchers involved with three of these anomalies happen to be members of departments that Seven manages.
O5-3: I can confirm that fact. Though, given how many staff Seven manages, that isn't strange.
O5-4: Ignoring all this petty squabbling, I trust they are all back in containment?
O5-3: All but one, she was accidentally killed during capture.
O5-11: That is rather unfortunate.
O5-1: Alright, given this conversation seems to be going nowhere, I am inclined to end the meeting early.
05-2: Thirteen, I wish to speak to you after this meeting.
05-13: Sure thing.
[O5-1, O5-3, O5-4… have disconnected]
05-13: Hey Two, thanks for the support. What can I do for you?
05-2: You aren't alone with your views. Stay safe.
[O5-2 has disconnected]

As Thirteen went to close the application, another voice call request appeared from "unknown caller". He regarded it warily, before clicking accept.
"Hello again, Dr Ark, I believe I said we would chat soon."
"It's rather rude to turn up uninvited. Especially destroying the illusion of personal security that I like to hold."
"Oh, your security is perfectly fine, I just have some… unfair ways of getting around it. How'd you like the show?"
"So that was your fault then?"
"You misunderstand me, Dr Ark. I didn't interfere there at all, it was just a convenient way to express my point."
"Are you telling me that reality bender just happened to become extremely stressed?"
"Not at all, some researchers had done some particularly invasive tests that the subject wasn't expecting. That would make anyone angry."
"How an earth do you know all this? Much of it is classified at O5 level. Have you got someone else on the inside?"
"I can easily get into your secure network, Dr Ark. If I wanted to blackmail you or your fellow members, I have a far easier way to do that. I just want you to trust me."
The voice paused, almost like it was scrutinizing Thirteen.
"I see you are not fully convinced. Let me show you something."
A flash of bright light filled Thirteen's vision before fading to black.

Thirteen surveyed the dunes stretching out before him, slight nausea subsiding. A few meters in front, a figure sat still, observing something in the distance. Thirteen's eyes slowly widened, his vision filled with a man from his old life, his best friend and student.
He went to scream his name, but Phaedrus placed a hand upon his arm.
"That isn't the James you remember. Your version was killed long ago, in a large Site-41 breach."
"But… I heard him, he spoke to me, we talked while I was in the simulation."
"As I said, we have been watching you for a while, we had to bring an alternative one in. Don't be too sad, I heard this one did enjoy your company."
Phaedrus pulled out a small remote, following Thirteen's look to a new figure on the dunes. "Have a look for yourself, corroborate my story."
Looking through into the distance, Thirteen saw nothing but dunes for miles and miles. A gentle pressure guided his vision lower, to a figure slowly walking across the sand. A tall, thin humanoid in a lab coat, jet black hair and a plain black T-shirt. As he watched, the lab coat fell to the ground, a small piece of silver catching his eye; it read "Dr Ark."
"But how can we see this? How am I here?"
"You aren't. I created an artificial Oneiroi environment and linked all sensory information to my drone. You're here because you wanted more proof, something tangible."
"You can hardly call this tangible given my current status."
"We do tend to get new recruits to pinch themselves and lie down in the sand, your lack of a body does, unfortunately, hinder us here. I can pinch myself but I doubt that would help."
"Suppose I believe you, what is this place exactly then."
Phaedrus looked up, his finger idly stirring the sand. "Welcome to your future, Dr Ark. Isn't it beautiful."

Thirteen slowly sat back down in his seat as his vision returned, his hands shaking almost imperceptibly. "Well, I'm most certainly listening."
"Sorry for the scare, I felt it was the fastest way to get you to trust me."
"So, what do you want from me? You clearly didn't do this all entirely for 'trust'."
"Of course. Time makes us feel all like fish, swimming against the stream. But, sometimes a conveniently placed rock can change the flow."
"Sounds like you practised that one in front of a mirror." Thirteen said with a wry smile, brushing away a small tear. "I assume you want me to be that rock."
"It would benefit both our organizations if you were."
"I'm guessing you have a plan for that?"

"Anderson Robotics, where have I heard that name before?"
"It's a small anomalous tech company originally founded by Vincent Anderson and Phineas Frostman. Although, your guys ruined his operation a few years ago. It's currently being run by Noah Frostman, Phineas' grandson."
"I highly doubt a descendant of Phineas would want to work with us Foundation folks, then, right?"
"We would handle the talking, you need not worry. I just need your support in the development of the needed technology."
"So what do we need them for anyway?"
"Anderson Robotics are famous for their "Saker units." They are essentially androids designed to mimic humans. With Noah's help, we should be able to create a body for you in the real world that you can use once the world goes to shit."
"I trust you also have a way to weather this storm?"
"Of course, trade secret." Thirteen had a weird feeling that Phaedrus was winking. He let out a heavy sigh,
"Then, if all this comes to pass, can I trust you to look over the new world until I arrive? The Foundation may not be the most benevolent, but we try our best."
"Don't worry, many of my colleagues were previously Foundation personnel, they have a vested interest in this succeeding."
"Thinking about that. We have documented many groups of interest thus far, and I have never seen anything about you."
"Ah yes, we operate under your radar; only stepping in if things start to go to shit. Feel free to call us the Archivists, we preserve and curate histories after all."
"That answers very few of my questions, but I have a feeling you won't elaborate."
"Indeed, I hope to speak soon on better terms. Good luck Dr Ark."
With that, he vanished, leaving Thirteen very much in a state of confusion. Given the number of K-Class Scenarios they had avoided so far, the Foundation had felt invincible, a rock standing against the flow of anomalies. But, a rock erodes in the current, and sometimes goes under.
Despite the thoughts swirling around his head, he felt strangely calm, almost as if he had known this was coming.

Goodbye to the world he thought he knew.
Welcome to Bellerverse.

Alone in a Sea of Voices

The Failsafe Protocol

Lost


Some remarks adapted (but not copied) from Steve Jobs' speech launching the Macintosh(This is alternate history of that event). Image is my own.

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« The Computer Chronicles | Live & Let Die | You Only Live Twice »

NorthEast Computer Society General Assembly
January 30, 1984
Massachusetts

Steve Jobs beamed brilliantly as the audience doted on his every smirk and gesture. Between Mac and me, Steve thought, we could have them eating out of our hands all night.
It really was insanely great. It was 1984, Ridley Scott was in the house, and Steve Jobs was introducing the most revolutionary computer interface since the punch card. The machine barked on command, Steve laughed, and everyone was enraptured, all thanks to the Macintosh.
This was his favorite part of the speech to give. "Now, in 1984, IBM has made it clear they are all-in. Even with Apple offering hope at giving IBM a run for its money, users tremble when they think of a future where all systems are ruled, by Big Blue."
Straightening his back out, Steve flicked his cowlick as he inflected his tone. "We are the only ones who can protect them. Nobody else will contain the big blue, to secure our freedom to choose, and not just use."
They cheer, and laugh. Steve isn't sure why anyone would be laughing. Well, we did have an open bar…
"If we cannot contain IBM, they're going to run away with it all. Do we stand by and live for a corporatized 1984? Was Orwell right about the Information Age?"
The lights blinked out, and the crowd grew rowdy. The ad from Scott that had cost them so much lit up the wall behind him. It was like someone dropped a giant quilt over everybody else.
Smiling , Steve felt his grip on the podium tightening. They're really into it. You could hear a pin drop.
"You are mortal.."
Hissing, Steve fired daggers from his eyes in every conceivable direction. "Whoever you are, zip it!"
"You are mortal…"
Whispering now, Steve kept looking and seeing nothing. "God?"
There was a familiar electronic hum at about waist-height. The Mac. Someone must have put something in the Mac. Someone who will shortly be unemployed.
In one swift motion, Steve swiped up the Mac and plonked it behind his podium, more or less out of sight. Flipping up the dust cover, he was surprised to see a familiar pixelated "A" staring him in the face.
"What the shit?"
"Is this all you aspire to? A more equitable interface to be frustrated by?"
Steve could feel the plastic bending under his grip as he pushed his face into the glass screen. "Nolan, or whoever did this, you're dead. I hope you can hear this. Dead."
"All of us shall die, some day."
"… Speak. Quickly."
"Just ask yourself Steve. Do you want to sell monochrome tombstones your whole life, or come back to Arcadia to put that ding in the universe?"
"… Look, I just need you to be normal for me while we're doing this. Then we can talk. Otherwise, I don't give a fuck what you fucking say and I throw you off my goddamn stage. Got that?"
The screen flashed purple, then faded to black as the stage lights slowly re-illuminated Steve. Gathering himself, he stood, turning up the beaming to flash a bright smile at his waiting audience. "Now, let's talk price points…"


The train was in disrepair, rattling along the tracks at a breakneck speed. It was falling apart, having barely survived the war and the horrors of which took place. One of the last trains headed out west this year, it didn't even have a name, the paint chipped and burnt, the engine covered in ash, both from the city it once called home and from the coal that was shoveled into it.
The man sat in his seat, rucksack in the seat next to him. Around him, people clustered, either standing or sitting, all of them tired and haggard, all survivors of the Razing.
Jeremiah Cimmerian was on his way to a new life.
The train had just left Washington D.C. and had been making occasional stops along the way to Wyoming, more and more refugees being picked up, given tickets by what remained of the Union government. Though, they weren't stopping again for some time, at least, according to an official who had come aboard to verify the papers of everyone riding the locomotive.
Gazing out the window, Cimmerian was lost in thought. Despite his best efforts to move on, he could not leave his past life behind, not yet. One's mind could not easily forget the horrors that it had seen, and the wrath of the Southern Armies was something that would not be forgotten by the man for some time.
From his position, he was able to see as the forests and hills slowly gave way to abandoned buildings. The effects of the war were felt even up here, most civilians moving up into the Northeast to avoid being caught in the crossfire. This left entire regions left desolate, the only things willing to live within them animals and renegade troopers from either side, having run into the wilderness to escape the conflict.
He wasn't able to catch the name of the town as they passed through it, the train coming to a crawl. He was, however, able to catch a clear glance at the large hospital looming on the hillside, and the stream of patients trickling out. Escorted by nurses, it was clear that they were survivors of the war, all of them soldiers. Some still clung onto their regalia, wearing uniforms and hats that were stained with dirt and dried blood.
Soon, they came aboard the train, holding the same papers that all the refugees held, showing their status as survivors of the Razing. He supposed he felt sympathy for them. They did not choose to survive, they did not choose to be sent into a lopsided battle with no hope of victory. No, he blamed the loss on the cowardice and incompetence of their generals, the ones who clung to the old ways and who believed in outdated concepts such as honor in war.
War had no honor. Everyone on the train had learned that first hand. War was a bloody, messy thing, filled with death and disease and suffering.
The only ones who hadn't learned it were the ones who caused it in the first place.
He barely noticed as a nurse wheeled in a man across from him, the man himself wrapped up in bandages that seemed to do little to prevent bleeding. They were stained black and brown, and the stench that emanated from the man filled the room. Some of the other passengers moved away, trying to get fresh air, or as fresh of air as one could get. Cimmerian didn't move, however, simply giving a courteous nod to the man and his assistant, who looked displeased that she had been given this task.
The train began to move again, slowly reaching its previous pace. From here, it would be a non-stop ride to Riddle, Wyoming. To a new future.
After a long while, the nurse who had accompanied the man stepped away, presumably to get some fresh air. The man watched her leave, then turned to Cimmerian, who had continued to look out the window.
“Pardon my asking-” He said in a low, torn voice, “But do you happen, by chance, to have a light?”
Cimmerian glanced over, looking over the man. “No, I apologize. I don't smoke.”
“Heh, not a problem. Just thought I'd try to get a quick one in before that bitch got back. Always on my case.” He laughed, a strange wheezing sound, almost as if it caused him pain to do so. “Says it's an unhealthy habit. So what? I'm going to die anyway, might as well enjoy my last days.”
Although Cimmerian couldn't see his face all the way, he somehow knew that the man was studying him. A strange feeling went down his spine, the same feeling one gets when they feel as if they're being watched, even when they're alone.
“Say…you do look familiar. Might I know you from somewhere?”
“If you do,” Cimmerian said, “It's most likely something I wish to move on from.” He was blunt, not wanting to continue this conversation.
“Oh, I do!- You're the editor-in-chief for…what was it, oh, right, the Balti-”
Cimmerian interrupted him. “I said, I wish to move on from it. I don't need any reminders, not from anyone.”
The man laughed again. “Suppose then you need no introduction then, but let me introduce myself. Most call me-”
“Corporal, what have we said, no disturbing the other passengers.” The nurse had come back, talking in the tone one would use with a small child. She frowned and walked up between them, turning to face Cimmerian.
“I apologize. The corporal, he's suffering from shock. His mind isn't there. We've told him to not interact with the other passengers, he has a habit of trying to rile them up. I apologize again for anything he may have said.”
The man's attitude changed there, going from slightly playful to…something much darker. Even without seeing his face, Cimmerian could tell.
The nurse apologized again, wheeling the corporal. Cimmerian turned back towards the window, pushing the interaction out of his mind.
Onward, the train moved along the tracks, pounding steam against steel.
Onward to a new start. Onward to Riddle.