May 14, 1883:
I received a most curious missive in the post this morning. It has been four months since I returned to England, having nearly lost my life in endeavouring to become the first man to reach the summit of the foreboding and deadly Mt. Everest. I have spent the time since in research and recovery here in London, nursing my wounds and documenting my memoirs of the harrowing trip up the mountain and my nearly-fatal encounter with the creature I found there - a tale which, I fear, may never be told outside these diaries - and I have not planned to embark again for distant shores until after summer has past. That has changed, I fear, as the result of today's letter. It was a formal affair, written in a folded card like a wedding invitation, sealed in the finest envelope, and I present it to you below;

To Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, CBE;
Col. Joseph D'Enfante, l'Armee de Terre of the Republic of France,
does hereby cordially invite you to participate in
A HUNT
of a great and terrible creature that threatens the lives of thousands.
THE TARASQUE,
a creature great and terrifying, of late believed to be legend,
has arisen and threatens the security of the land of Provence and of France itself.
Col. D'Enfante has been authorised by the President of the Republic
to pay a sum of
FIVE MILLION ENGLISH POUNDS
to the man or men who shall slay this infamous beast.
R.S.V.P. in care of Col. D'Enfante, No. 22, Kensington Road, Knightsbridge, London.

I immediately dashed off an acceptance and sent it out with the afternoon post. Though I have hunted foxes and elephants and every beast, great and small, in between, I had never heard of such a creature as the Tarasque, and certainly never had an opportunity to hunt one. I spent my afternoon in the study, pouring over encyclopediae and tomes of history and mythology, before I found the term in a collection of folk tales regarding St. Martha, sister to Mary Magdalene, who had supposedly calmed the beast with her song. The text described it as a vicious creature; a massive chimera, that breathed fire and whose scaly hide repelled every blade, that killed without remorse and seemed only to wreak chaos for its own enjoyment.
When the last delivery of the day came just before tea-time, I had received an address and directions to attend a briefing the day after tomorrow in the City. I have always been a firm believer in the proposition that even in the most preposterous of myths, there lies a kernel of truth. Whether an ancient behemoth that breathed fire was bringing ruination to the south of France, I knew not; but I knew that the army and the president themselves were concerned enough to seek out a man such as myself, and were willing to offer a bounty that would finance a score of proper expeditions for the killing of a single beast. On Wednesday, I will learn why.
May 16, 1883:
Today I attended Col. D'Enfante's meeting, held in a private room in the City, at the club owned by Messrs. Marshall, Carter, and Dark. (Lest the reader question my morality, I assure you that I am no member, dues-paying or otherwise, of that association; I find their stock in trade offensive and deplorable, and their clientele even more so.) But on this day, the windowless establishment was free of its usual throng of libertines and Bohemians, replaced by a handful of officers and men in the uniforms of the French, a handful of our own soldiers guarding the door. Servants and waiters, apparently relieved to be in our company rather than that of their usual employers, offered drinks and hors d'oeuvres to their guests.
Besides myself, there were three guests of honour at the meeting. There was an American, Mr. Roosevelt, a young man who had made for himself already quite a name as a hunter of big game in the American west. There was Mr. Dukov, a Russian I knew of by reputation as a scientist and historian. Lastly, there was another Englishman, the same Mr. Harris whom readers of these pages may recall as he whom I matched wits with on the banks of the Nile in 1855. I will spare the reader the excruciating details of our past intercourse; suffice it to say that Mr. Harris and I were schoolmates at Eton, that I regarded him then as little more than a common blackguard, and that what news I have heard of him since then has given me little reason to change my assessment of his personage.
Col. D'Enfante, a short and middle-aged man who bore signs of great fatigue and worry, spoke briefly and elaborated on his reasons for calling on the four of us. The being that his government had come to call the Tarasque, he said, had first appeared the Sunday after Easter near the village of Tarascon (named, most coincidentally, for the mythical beast itself) and had destroyed the town utterly, claiming several thousand souls in the process. The handful of survivors who escaped the devastation had described a great lizard, nimble and merciless, that had charged directly into the town square and destroyed everyone and everything in its path, crushing, smashing, and devouring people, livestock, and buildings alike. One man, a farmer whose wife and children had been ripped to shreds by the beast, claimed that it spoke to him, in plain French, and told him of them; "Ils étaient répugnants."
Since then, the Colonel said, three outlying villages and countless farms in Provence had fallen to the Tarasque. It attacked without mercy or reason, killed indiscriminately, and left only devastation in its wake. The army had sent men and horses and cavalry against it; there were few survivors, and those who lived claimed the beast had been struck directly by artillery and neither flagged nor missed a step, the hole in its chest seemingly knitting together as it charged their position. The entire region had been quarantined, citizens were being evacuated by the thousands, and the army and the press were passing stories of plagues and Prussian revanchists, but his government feared the worst would soon come to pass; Nimes, Avignon, and Arles were in danger if the beast continued to rage.
The four of us, the Colonel claimed, were the finest hunters and scientific minds available and known to his government. He knew not if we were capable of taking down such a monster, but between our expert knowledge and unique access to the finest tools and weapons known to science, he hoped we could succeed where his own forces had failed.
I left the meeting with a stack of papers; details of the army's knowledge of the Tarasque based on what reconnaissance they have to date endeavoured. On Saturday, the four of us will board a steamer across the Channel and travel to the epicenter of this pandemonium ourselves. Deeds, my loyal valet, has begun packing my bags, and is having the more "exotic" armaments in my arsenal prepared for shipping. I do not anticipate working with Mr. Harris any more than I anticipate shaking hands with the Devil, but Messrs. Roosevelt and Dukov appear to be of sound mind and fine spirit, and with luck, our motley quartet shall return to England with a fortune in our pockets and a story to tell.
May 20th, 1883:
We disembarked in Avignon after an uneventful trip by train from Calais. It may seem strange for a globe-trotter such as myself, but until this week-end I have never had occasion to travel to France; after all, it is a civilised place, lacking in the ancient mysteries and elusive game that is my passion (or so I would have thought). Mr. Roosevelt and I spent many hours sharing our tales of adventure; I find in him a true intellectual who understands what it means to be a naturalist. Mr. Dukov I found more difficult to talk to; he is a private man, who prefers the company of his books and his studies to that of his fellows. He proudly displayed a variety of his own inventions he intended to test against the Tarasque; a gun that fires beams of electricity, a jellied kerosene that burns without exploding, and what he described as his latest prototype - a large rifle on a tripod, fueled by refined pitchblende (which I suspect is not entirely different than Mr. Moth's destabilizing muskets, one of which I had brought myself.)
I did my best to avoid speaking to Mr. Harris during the trip. I intend during our expedition to be no less than a gentleman, but the man leaves a sour taste in my mouth. When we boarded the train at Calais, I watched as he had a large crate loaded onto the train, which he told us contained his "secret weapon". He refused to tell us what the box contained, but viewing it made me uncomfortable - the air seemed to chill as it was carried by. In any event, it is too large to fit in our wagon - for now, we shall be leaving it in a bank vault in Avignon.
Our weapons and provisions have been loaded onto a wagon and horses have been readied for us. Tomorrow, Colonel D'Enfante will escort us to the edge of the quarantine zone. From there, he says, the four of us shall be on our own - he can spare no more soldiers, lest the beast attack the fortifications directly and break loose.
May 21st, 1883:
I have seen the horrors of war often enough in my years. I saw the wrath of the British Empire first-hand when I lead troops in the Opium Wars. In Africa I have seen native tribes fight to the last man, destroying everything in their path. In the Crimea I barely escaped with my life as thousands of men fought and died and cities were laid bare. The destruction I saw there pales in comparison to what I have beheld in the Tarasque's wake.
Avignon itself looked like a city at war - soldiers patrolling the streets, barricades at the edge of town. Not far outside the city we reached the edge of the quarantine zone. Soldiers had been hard at work digging trenches, erecting fortifications. The young men keeping watch looked battle-scarred, as though they had seen indescribable horror. A constant stream of evacuees made their way out of the area - women and children, some with little more than the clothes on their back. Many looked confused and agitated, as if they had no clue why they were being removed from their homes. On the faces of others, there was no doubt. I asked on passing if any of them had yet seen the Tarasque. Only a few - the scouts and lookouts - had seen it from a distance, I was told, for nobody who had engaged the beast at close range was still alive. It had not yet dared to attack the perimeter the army had erected - but two days prior, a watchman told me, he had spotted it a mile from the front line, seemingly staring back at him. Mr. Harris grudgingly agreed to ride out alone and scout for the beast, while Mr. Roosevelt, Mr. Dukov, and I followed the road to Tarascon to learn what we could of the nature of our quarry.
Tarascon itself was a scene of utter ruination. Bodies lay by the score in the streets where they had fallen. Much of the town had been consumed by fire; the town's famous castle, and other stone buildings, dashed to rubble and massive holes torn in the walls that remained standing. We saw not a living soul - no man or woman, no livestock, nor vermin, nor birds or beasts of the field. Even the greenery of the town seemed to have been destroyed. I began to feel pangs of doubt in my stomach as we surveyed the scene - could one creature have truly wreaked such destruction?
We set up camp on the edge of the dead town. Mr. Harris returned by evening and informed us he had spotted the Tarasque to the southwest, near the village of Bellegarde, in the act of destroying a farmhouse. Its route, he said, had not been difficult to trace, for a swath of barren land seemed to lay a trail; even the grass itself was not safe from the Tarasque's wrath. Tomorrow, we will follow the trail, and engage the beast.
May 22nd, 1883:
We have met the Tarasque this day, and we are lucky to have escaped with our lives.
We traveled southwest to Belleville, which we found in a state of destruction not unlike that of Tarascon itself. From there, we followed the creature's trail as it meandered south, then west, then northwest through the farmlands, drawing uncomfortably close to Nimes. Shortly after midday, we spotted the creature in the distance; it was stationary, seeming to nap in the afternoon sun. It was a massive thing, longer than a whale and taller than a giraffe, and it looked to outweigh either. Its scales glistened in the sun and its teeth, massive and shining, were bared as it rested among the chaos it had wrought. Had it wings, I would have called it a dragon.
With our weapons in tow we stealthily approached the beast to a range of less than a hundred feet. Mr. Dukov set up his pitchblende-gun, which he claimed would take some time to charge before it could be fired, while Mr. Roosevelt and Mr. Harris prepared their elephant guns and I readied my particle destabilizer. Behind a short fence demarcating one of the now-abandoned farms, we drew straws and it was agreed I would take the first shot at the abomination. Steadying my gun against the fence, I took careful aim for the sleeping Tarasque's head, I held my breath, made my final adjustment, and fired.
The shot hit square and true, and we watched with delight as the top of the Tarasque's head was shorn clean off. The beast slumped to the ground and I breathed a sigh of relief. In one shot, the beast that had killed thousands and menaced a nation was dead. Mr. Harris let out a cheer - and the dead beast came to life. It rose to its feet and turned in our direction. Blood, brains, and gore oozed from its skull as a head missing an eye stared us down and let out a blood-curdling roar before it charged at us faster than a bull elephant. Mr. Roosevelt and Mr. Harris barely had time to fire a round each at the beast before we were forced to scatter. Harris tossed aside his elephant gun for a smaller repeater he had been carrying and discharged a magazine into the Tarasque's flank - and we watched in horror as the wounds it took sealed themselves within seconds. Mr. Dukov was forced to shut down his pitchblende-gun before it could fully charge, and fired his electric rifle three times into the monster's open wound, stunning it for long enough for us to reach our horses. By the time we were on horseback, the beast was up again and charging us, and flesh and bone was knitting anew over the open cavity in its skull. I fired the particle destabilizer again at its foreleg and took it off entirely, hobbling it as it tried to chase us on three legs. We rode in four directions and agreed to meet behind the quarantine line. I saw the beast attempt to take off in pursuit of Mr. Roosevelt as the stump of its leg began to grow and take new form, but he was able to elude the goliath and by nightfall we were among the soldiers at the barricade, our prides injured but otherwise in good health.
May 28th, 1883:
Luck and providence have provided; thus far, the Tarasque has made no effort to escape the quarantine area, and has proven content to ravage the abandoned farms of Provence and feed liberally on the animals and plants left behind. After our second attempt to attack the Tarasque on the 23rd proved no more successful than the first, we have come to a conclusion that the beast cannot be killed simply by gunshot, or electrification, or setting it aflame, for the rate at which it heals its injuries is so great, and its tolerance for pain and mutilation so high, that even the mighty broadsides of the Royal Navy would have little chance of destroying it before it could take their lives in trade. To slay the Tarasque, we determined, we would have to immobilize it, and deal such destruction upon it that it would be utterly annihilated before it could free itself. We discussed for several hours how such a thing could be achieved, before an old sergeant who had been manning the night watch begged our ears. The sergeant had, he said, fought in Viet-Namh when the natives there attempted to rebel against the French in sixty-eight, and had seen them make use of a trap that was elegant, easily disguised, and deadly. Mr. Roosevelt and I talked over the fine points of the idea well into the night, and the next day the four of us traveled into the field to lay our trap.
We prepared our trap in the fields near Graveson, a village between Tarascon and Avignon that the Tarasque had yet to lay waste to, and where the water table was amenable to our task. By careful observation we had judged that the beast stood about nine feet at the shoulder, six feet wide, and thirty feet long. With the help of a few soldiers whom Col. D'Enfante had grudgingly conceded to parting with, we dug a long trench in the field wide and long enough to contain the beast, and deep enough to stop the beast climbing loose before the damage could be done. In the bottom of the pit we mounted steel rods, sharpened to a fine point, by the hundreds, each tipped with a noxious poison I had acquired in the Orient. Running lengthwise through the center of the pit, we built a wooden bridge, large and sturdy enough to accommodate a man on horseback, but not so sturdy that it would not break and shatter under the weight of the Tarasque. Four days we were involved in the earthwork; the digging done, we laid a net across the top and it was covered with grass and leaves. From a distance, it looked to all the world like an ordinary patch of open land - beneath which, laid doom.
Mr. Harris has spotted the Tarasque not two miles from our location, and tomorrow we will spring the trap. Mr. Roosevelt has agreed to act as bait - he will approach the Tarasque on horseback and attack it once with his elephant gun, and once it gives chase, he will lure it to the pit. He is to gallop across the bridge and lure the Tarasque to follow him - and when it attempts to do so, it will surely fall into the pit. Messrs. Dukov and Harris and I, lying in wait out of sight, will then join Mr. Roosevelt at the pit's edge and unleash the full fury of our armaments onto it - our rifles and shot-guns, the particle destabilizer, Mr. Dukov's electric rifle, and provided it has charged safely, he shall make his first firing of the pitchblende-gun. Once our armament has been exhausted, we shall pour four barrels of Mr. Dukov's jellied kerosene into the pit and ignite it - and, Providence withstanding, nothing shall be left of the creature but ash and bone by sundown tomorrow.
May 29th, 1883:
SUCCESS!
The plan went off without a hitch. It was afternoon before Mr. Roosevelt could coerce the Tarasque into pursuing him, but surely enough the reptilian behemoth fell into the pit, impaled upon the spikes, and was stuck while the four of us rained destruction from above. The monster let loose a screech from the pits of Damnation itself as bullets and explosives tore its flesh loose bit by bit, and jellied kerosene burned slowly and stopped it regrowing. Mr. Dukov warned us to avert our eyes when he finally fired the pitchblende-gun, and his warning was justified - the blast was bright enough to blind, and a massive plume of smoke and fire erupted from the pit after he had pulled the trigger, seeming to blossom into a mushroom above us. By the time the fires had died down, a charred skeleton was all that remained.
We have separated the beast's massive skull, blackened and perforated, from what remains of the monster, and a handful of soldiers who reported after the blast are hard at work filling in the pit with earth. Tomorrow we shall bring the skull back to Avignon and collect our reward.
May 30th, 1883:
DISASTER!
We were hailed as heroes by the army when we arrived in Avignon with our prize. In the morning light, the Tarasque's skull seemed whiter than it had the night before, and more charred flesh stuck to it than it had seemed when we dragged it from the pit, though surely it was little more than an illusion. The four of us posed for photographs, and Mr. Dukov asked to have his photograph taken with his head in between the massive jaws of our fallen prey.
Imagine our horror when the jaws snapped shut, severing Dukov's head neatly at the shoulders. The skull of the Tarasque rolled loose from its place on the stage and snapped again, taking another chunk of his body, and the soldiers screamed and fainted as it seemed to be growing a new coating of flesh and scales over its charred exterior. We watched, shocked, as the honor guards fired a volley at the skull. The chips it took off seemed to replace themselves instantly, and I was dumbfounded as sinew and muscle seemed to spread across the creature's bones and knit into shape. The jaws of the disembodied Tarasque opened and it shouted in French; "Vous me rendez malade".
From the other end of the plaza I heard more screams, and looked to see the impossible - the rest of the Tarasque! Covered in earth and grime, held together by a few lonely strands of muscle, the headless carcass lurched through the square with uncanny speed, trampling men in its path, ignoring gunshot and cannon fire as it made to rejoin its body. From the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Harris take off running. Mr. Roosevelt noted he was headed in the direction of the bank vault and his secret weapon; as the skull of the Tarasque seemed to be making its way towards where I stood, I gave Harris chase.
We found Mr. Harris having dragged the crate out of the vault into the lobby, hurriedly prying the boards loose. Soon the crate fell away, revealing a stone coffin that looked truly ancient. It felt as if all the heat fled the room when the sarcophagus was exposed, and I forced back a shudder as I beheld it. Three chains with massive locks held the lid in place, and the lid and casket itself were covered with hand-carved runes that looked to be Sumerian or Akkadian. I confess that I have not taken the time to learn the ancient languages of Mesopotamia; but I felt a distinct sense of wrongness emanating from the box as Mr. Harris drew a ring with three keys from his coat and began to unlock the seals, one by one. I begged with him to stop this madness and flee while we had a chance, and he insisted that once open, our victory would be secured. Mr. Harris pushed the lid aside and barely had a moment to regard his secret weapon, in the flesh, before an olive-toned arm, sword in hand, lashed out from within the box and sliced his head clean off.
In all my years of adventuring among the primitives and wild men of the world, I have never set eyes on a man who looked so savage, so elemental, so full of primal rage as the being that now climbed from the coffin; naked, sword in hand, its long black hair flowing behind it, its body covered head to toe in tattooes of eldritch imagery and ancient languages that resembled no script written by man. Sherman, the American general, is said to have told his enemies, begging for mercy, that they may as well appeal against the thunderstorm. What I beheld before me, I thought, was the very eidolon of the storm.
Mr. Roosevelt attempted to entreat with the man and beg its assistance; seeming to barely hear him, the god-man set his eyes on Roosevelt and lunged with his sword. Roosevelt parried with his rifle, the barrel cracking under its onslaught, and in surprise the god-man dropped the blade. Roosevelt picked it up and attempted to return the blow, and in an instant the god-man somehow held another sword in each hand. Mr. Roosevelt did his best to fend off his assailant's onslaught, but found himself cornered soon. Though I am loath to intervene in a fair fight between two honest men, I could not bear to see Mr. Roosevelt cut down in the midst of this pandemonium; I drew my pistol and emptied its cylinder, discharging five rounds into the god-man's head.
Though it should have been dead, the olive-skinned destroyer turned and stared me down. Like the Tarasque, even with half its face gone it seemed ready to kill. Dropping one of its blades, it moved its hand rapidly through the air and tossed something at me faster than I could react. In an instant, I could not move my arms. The man had somehow materialized a bola, a weapon used by the cow-men of South America to immobilize fleeing animals, and it had tied itself securely around my chest. Another flick and a second bola struck me around the legs, and I was down on the ground. He approached to land the killing blow, when behind me I saw the outer wall of the bank shudder and give way and heard that offensive roar - the cry of the Tarasque, nary a scratch upon it, as it entered the building in search of its would-be slayers.
The god-man caught sight of the Tarasque and lost interest entirely in Mr. Roosevelt and I. This, I thought, must be why poor Mr. Harris considered him his secret weapon; this avatar of rage lived to fight, and in the Tarasque, it had the ultimate rival. To describe the fight that ensued between those two unkillable titans would take a hundred pages or more; Mr. Roosevelt and I huddled in the safety of the bank vault, which alone seemed immune to the destruction the two rained upon each other. After the better part of an hour had passed, hundreds lay dead around them, the center of Avignon little more than rubble. The god-man was missing an arm and half a leg, an eye, and the better part of his brain, and his stomach had been cut open. In a state where most men would be long dead, it continued to fight, severing even its own entrails and making weapons of them. The Tarasque had suffered as badly; it was on the ground, recuperating, when I saw the god-man take notice of Mr. Dukov's pitchblende-gun, lying near what remained of the stage that an hour ago had been the site of such jubilation.
As we watched, the god-man removed the core of the pitchblende-gun with an uncanny precision. He made what seemed to be bombs and explosives appear, and it strapped them to the device's core, which he mounted on his chest. Lighting a fuse, it charged at the Tarasque as it readied itself to meet him. Having seen the fury of the pitchblende-gun in a controlled state, Mr. Roosevelt and I had no desire to see what happened next. We retreated into the vault as a blinding light filled the square and a blistering wind, mightier than the hurricanes of the Caribbean, slammed the door shut and sealed us within.
It is dark; the light from my electric torch has provided just enough luminescence by which to write this account. I know not for how long the air in this vault will last. Aside from the lifeless body of Mr. Harris, there is nothing in this vault that approximates food or water, and as Christians and gentlemen Mr. Roosevelt and myself have sworn not to pursue that dark path unless our lives themselves are on the line. I do not know if I will make it out of here alive; if I do not, let this diary be my last word and testament to the horrors that have befallen this corner of the world.
June 13th, 1883:
Providence smiled upon us after all, in the end; on the morning of the 1st, the vault door opened and I regarded a major of the army and a company of men searching for survivors. Mr. Roosevelt and I were dehydrated and beginning to suffer from pitchblende-fever; fortunately; I knew the address of one of my dear friend Henry's associates in Marseille, and upon being transported to hospital, he met us there and provided the treatments necessary to stave off the certain death that that malicious ague carries with it.
Colonel D'Enfante is dead, I have learned; and at least ten thousand others who were incinerated when Avignon was consumed by flame. Even those who had survived, I learned, have been burned or blinded, and pitchblende-fever will likely claim many of them in time. No sign has been seen of the Tarasque or the god-man since the explosion; nor, for that matter, of the icy sarcophagus in which he had apparently slept until the late Mr. Harris loosed him upon the city. It will take years, if not decades, to restore this ancient region to its former glory.
We were two of only a handful of witnesses to one of the greatest disasters to strike France in recent memory; and having been at the center of it all, the army regarded us with great suspicion. We were interrogated several times, first by soldiers, then by police, then by politicians. A man who looked English watched and took notes, but said not a word as we told our story. In the end we escaped transportation to Devil's Island, but the reward that had been promised was forfeit, and we were sternly warned that neither of us were welcome in France again so long as we lived. The explosion that claimed Avignon was seen for hundreds of miles, I learned, and the press from Paris to New York were heavily embroiled in speculation; everything from a falling star, to a German super-weapon, to the wrath of God Himself was being proposed as an explanation. We were warned not to share our personal knowledge of the event with others as we were sent on our way.
Mr. Roosevelt and I parted ways in Calais; he intends to return to America, he informed me, and pursue a political career. In that, I wish him well.
I returned to my house in London this afternoon, and was informed by Deeds that a post-card had arrived for me this morning. The handwriting in the brief, unsigned note within resembled that of the strange Englishman who had attended the questionings, whose notes I caught brief glimpses of from time to time. I present that message below;

To Lord Theodore Thomas Blackwood, CBE;
The Royal Foundation for the Security, Containment, and Protection of Anomalous Objects and Phantasmagoria requests a meeting for the purpose of negotiating an alliance favourable to both our parties. Please call any time (excepting Sundays) at No. 19 Marylebone Road, Westminster, and ask to speak to Doctor Thursday. Your discretion is requested in this matter.

I have not heard of this Foundation before, and I do not know if I intend to take them up on their mysterious overture. Perhaps I shall hear them out; but I have never been one to serve in one man's employ for very long, and I value my freedom as a naturalist and explorer above all else. We shall see.


Neptune Station Theatrical Poster

How bad is it?
Bad. All communications with Neptune Station have ceased. Sector Twenty-Three's failsafes are not responding.
Do we have any idea what we're looking at?
None. I've sent word. Mobile Task Force Omega Four is on its way to the SCPS Poseidon now.
See to it that the situation is contained, Admiral.
Yes, sir. Hendrickson out.

ACT I

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INT. SCPS POSEIDON – NIGHT
Music fades down. Though inside the bowels of the ship, the sounds of a gale can be heard outside. Inside are CREWMAN, Lieutenant Commander MARKS, Chief Petty Officer BRANDT, and Doctor REX.
CREWMAN:
Commander, Admiral Hendrickson is online.
MARKS:
Start the call.
CREWMAN:
Yes, sir.
The call comes online.
MARKS:
Admiral, this is Marks. Chief Brandt and Dr. Rex are here with me.
HENDRICKSON:
Okay, Commander. Doctor, you may begin the briefing.
REX:
Okay. Sector Twenty-Three has gone offline. And we don't know why.
BRANDT:
Uh, for those of us who don't remember every secure facility the Foundation runs…
REX:
Ah, yes, right. We're directly above it right now, actually – it's on the ocean floor. The main base of operations in the sector is generally called “Neptune Station”. Now, I assume you're all familiar with the Foundation's Project Daedalus?
MARKS:
Laying the groundwork for our space program, right?
REX:
Yes, Commander. You see, O5 Command believes that containment of a variety of objects would be far safer if we stored them off planet. And, there are a fair handful of different SCPs that put us a generation or three ahead of the main American, Russian, European, and Chinese space programs – that is, assuming we can replicate their effects in a controllable way.
BRANDT:
“Open the door, Hal!”
REX:
Uh, something like that, Chief, though less to do with artificial intelligence and more to do with irregular spacetime, general relativity, and quantum mechanics.
MARKS:
Doctor…
REX (CONT'D):
You see, because they don't have access to the objects we're containing, and thus don't realize the exceptions to the laws of physics,
MARKS:
Doctor…
REX (CONT'D):
mainstream physicists generally dismiss the practical viability of such useful things as quantum entanglement, time dilation, zero point energy generation—
MARKS:
REX! The point?
REX:
Anyway, Sector Twenty-Three is home to the research and development program for Project Daedalus.
MARKS:
Thank you.
BRANDT:
Why put a space research base on the ocean floor?
REX:
Well, several reasons, really, first being power. Lots of power. The Scotia Sea sits on its own tectonic plate – and a relatively thin one. There is a very active hydrothermal vent field, which we've tapped for geothermal power. Neptune Station has no difficulty generating – and using – as much power as the entire country of South Korea. Second, security is easy – it's not that easy to get 5 kilometers under the ocean, and passive sonar will pick up anybody trying. Third, containment is incredibly simple: you just blow a few holes in the pressure hull and let the immense pressure of the ocean crush the facility.
BRANDT:
“Crunch.”
REX:
Yeah, pretty much. Now, five years ago, when the Foundation was originally surveying to find a place to put Sector Twenty-Three, they found a number of suitable locations, but chose the Scotia Sea for a simple reason: this.
Rex hits a button, calling up an image on the computer screen.
MARKS:
What are we looking at?
REX:
This is E-2157. Possibly the biggest scientific discovery in the history of the world.
MARKS:
So, what is it?
REX:
It is, well, we have absolutely no idea what it is. Scans put it at somewhere between two and five kilometers in length and between point five and one kilometers in width and height. Every time we measure it, we get different readings. It's buried in the silt and bedrock, and has been for between ten thousand and several tens of millions of years.
MARKS:
Is it some sort of creature?
REX:
We don't know. Our biologists can't make heads or tails of it. If it ever was “alive”, it now appears to be dead or dormant. From what we can tell, it's composed of both a variety of metallic alloys our engineers have never seen before and some minerals unlike anything our geologists recognize. In all cases, at the microscopic level, the structure of the materials resembles a cross between the theoretical construction of advanced nanites and that of organic cells. We don't know if it was built, grown, or what.
BRANDT:
Get to the point, Doc. What does this thing have to do with space travel?
REX:
I was just getting to that. Inside and immediately around the object, the laws of physics work differently – very differently, and very usefully. We've had to basically throw traditional mathematics out the window, but we've been making progress, however slowly. After three years of effort, our researchers finally managed to get inside about six months ago. Anyway, long story short, if we're able to safely replicate any of the anomalies caused by this object, this thing is the holy grail.
MARKS:
The holy grail?
REX:
Yes. Not just for Project Daedalus, but for human society in general. Faster-than-light travel. Nearly inexhaustible pure clean energy extracted from the very fabric of spacetime. Truly instantaneous communications unhindered by the speed of light. The list goes on. This is big. The wheel big. Fire big.
BRANDT:
…Wow.
REX:
Yeah. “Wow.”
HENDRICKSON:
Now that you understand how important Sector Twenty-Three is, you realize why O5 Command is so concerned about the cessasstion of communications. We lost contact about 15 hours ago. We have no idea what happened, but we do know the failsafes haven't triggered.
BRANDT:
(aside)
Why do failsafes always fail? Aren't they supposed to be safe from failure?
HENDRICKSON (CONT'D):
Commander, you and your team are going down to Neptune Station on the Poseidon's minisub. I know three people isn't enough to secure the station, but that's not why we're sending you down there. Restablish communications. Find out what went wrong. Because of how difficult it is to get large numbers of people down to the Station, O5 Command isn't willing to devote more personnel until we know exactly what we're dealing with. Nevertheless, the research is too important to abandon unless there's a very good reason.
MARKS:
Aye, sir.
HENDRICKSON:
One last thing, Commander: don't go into Echo Two One Five Seven itself - it's too risky, since we don't know if the object is responsible for what's going on down there. Once you've reported back with more details, O5 will authorize sending more personnel down for recovery operations. If we don't hear from you within 24 hours, you will be presumed lost. Hendrickson out.
The transmission ends; fade up music.

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ACT II

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INT. MINISUB
CREWMAN:
Commander Marks, we are on final approach now to Neptune Station.
MARKS:
Hit the cameras and floodlights. Let's take a look.
CREWMAN:
Aye, sir.
A switch is thrown.
BRANDT:
Well, the station's exterior floodlights are still on, so power's online. It also looks like all the station's minisubs are still docked.
MARKS:
Well, since the porch light's on, let's see if anyone's home.
Marks keys the acoustic telephone.
MARKS (CONT'D):
Authenticator Papa Oscar Five Sierra Three calling Neptune Station. (beat) Authenticator Papa Oscar Five Sierra Three calling Neptune Station, please respond.
REX:
Well, worth a try.
MARKS:
Dock us with the Station. Once we've offloaded, head back up to the Poseidon. We'll come up in one of the Station's minisubs.
CREWMAN:
Understood.
The minisub docks with the station with a deep, muffled, echoing clang. There is a hiss of air in the umbilical. The hatch is opened. Omega-4 climbs out and closes the hatches behind them.
INT. DOCKING AREA
The docking area is midsized and bare metal. A light clicks on and off, on and off. VENILIA, the station computer, greets the team over the 1MC.
VENILIA:
Welcome to Neptune Station, the world's deepest permanent research outpost at 4775 meters beneath the surface of the Scotia Sea. At present, the station is at General Quarters. Please remain here. A security escort will arrive to greet you shortly.
MARKS:
Flashlights, people.
REX:
Huh, looks like this section of the station's on emergency lights.
BRANDT:
That's not a good sign.
MARKS:
More to the point, where is everybody? There should be a Boatswain's Mate on duty – wait. Rex, there's a handprint here behind the desk.
Rex walks over and bends down. He examines the handprint, touches, and smells it.
REX:
Dark, blackish red. Slightly warmer than room temperature. It's not blood – wrong smell. Too viscous to be seawater. Still, slightly salty. I'm not sure what it is.
MARKS:
Hm. Take a sample.
REX:
Already on it.
BRANDT:
No sign of anyone in the vicinity.
Marks removes the microphone from the main circuit callbox. He keys the 42MC.
MARKS:
CIC, Docking Area. This is Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Marks of Mobile Task Force Omega Four. Is anyone there?
There is no reply.
MARKS (CONT'D):
CIC, Docking Area. This is Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Marks of Mobile Task Force Omega Four. We are here investigating a cessation of communications. Please respond.
There is no response.
REX:
That's a little troubling.
BRANDT:
“A little”?
MARKS:
On the 1MC, then.
Marks keys the 1MC, triggering the station-wide intercom.
MARKS (CONT'D):
This is Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Marks of Mobile Task Force Omega Four, calling from the Docking Area. We are here investigating a cessation of communications. Any personnel hearing this, please respond.
There is silence, apart from the quiet clicking of the GQ light.
REX:
Commander, we should get to the CIC. I'll be able to access the station's logs and security camera feeds. We need to head up two levels and over three corridors.
MARKS:
“Once more unto the breach.” Chief, after you.
INT. CORRIDORS
The team walks through long, deserted corridors. All sounds are mechanical: blinking GQ lights, the hiss of environmental systems, distant whirring and thumping of machinery.
BRANDT:
Where's the crew? Shouldn't there be a couple hundred people on this station?
REX:
One hundred fifty, at the moment.
BRANDT:
So where are they? Most containment breaches I've handled left evidence: you know, blood or whatever. And the couple of times I've fought off the Chaos Insurgency, they just left bodies where they fell.
VENILIA:
(over the 1MC)
General Quarters, General Quarters! All hands man your battle stations. Up and forward to starboard, down and aft to port. General Quarters, General Quarters!
MARKS:
How much farther, Rex?
REX:
Next right and we're there.
The team opens the hatch to the CIC and enters.
INT. CIC
The CIC is an absolute mess. An alarm klaxon is blaring. There are a couple small fires burning, and several consoles are sparking ominously. The bodies of the command staff lay scattered about, still smoking from radiation burns. LCDR HOWARD, Sector 23's Deputy Director and Neptune Station's Commander, is frantically moving about the room, muttering to herself.
HOWARD:
(muttering desperately to self)
Section four is leaking, have to seal it off. Fires in main engineering and the CIC, activate fire suppression systems. Dammit, fire suppression systems non-responsive. Have to dispatch damage control crews. Lockdown D-Class quarters. We don't need them running around. Where the hell is Lieutenant Douglas? Radiation warnings in the labs – crap. Evacuate those sections. Pressure warning in section four. Section four is leaking, have to seal it off. Fires in main engineering and the CIC, activate fire suppression systems. Dammit, fire suppression systems non-responsive. Have to dispatch damage control crews. Lockdown D-Class quarters. We don't need them running around. Where the hell is Lieutenant Douglas? Radiation warnings in the labs – crap. Evacuate those sections. Pressure warning in section four.
MARKS:
Rex, Brandt, check for survivors. (to Howard) Commander! Commander, snap out of it! COMMANDER!
HOWARD (CONT'D):
Section four is leaking, have to—wha-what?
MARKS:
Commander, calm down. We're here to help.
HOWARD:
Help?
MARKS:
Commander Howard, I'm Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Marks, that is Chief Petty Officer Brandt, and that is Doctor Rex. We're MTF Omega Four.
HOWARD:
Omega Four?
MARKS:
That's right, Commander. Now listen. I need you to stop, and breath.
HOWARD:
(takes a deep breath)
Okay.
REX:
No survivors, sir.
BRANDT:
Looks like radiation burns.
MARKS:
Rex, start digging through the computer and see what you can find.
REX:
On it.
MARKS (CONT'D):
Commander Howard, I need to know what happened here.
HOWARD:
Okay. (deep breath) I was off duty, sleeping, when General Quarters sounded. I rushed up here to the CIC. Fire everywhere. Captain Wells was dead. Equipment exploding. Damage reports coming in. Dozens injured. More dead. Section four is leaking, have to seal it off. Fires in main engineering and the CIC, activate fire suppression systems. Dammit, fire suppression systems non-responsive.
MARKS:
COMMANDER! Stay with us, here. It's okay. You can calm down.
HOWARD:
Help?
MARKS:
Yes. We're here to help.
HOWARD:
Sorry, I just—
MARKS:
Commander, I've been there before too.
HOWARD:
Yeah. Anyway, I was trying to handle damage control when you arrived.
REX:
Uh, Commander?
HOWARD & MARKS:
Yes?
REX:
According to the computer logs, General Quarters was sounded 27 hours ago.
BRANDT:
I thought contact was lost a little over 16 hours ago.
REX:
Hey, all I know is what the computer says here. And no, there is no indication about why General Quarters was sounded.
MARKS:
Hm. Can you tell me why communication was lost?
REX:
Yes, that's simple: the fiber-optic cables connecting to the mainland were cut. Don't know why, or how, though. Anyway, it's not fixable from inside, and I'm not rated on deep ocean salvage and repair.
MARKS:
Alright. Any other survivors on the station?
REX:
I'm looking through security camera feeds. I'm only seeing one other person, living or dead, on the station – down by the decontamination chamber leading to E-2157.
MARKS:
Commander Howard?
HOWARD:
That's Dr. Kelly. She's Sector 23's Head of Research.
BRANDT:
Then there's a good chance she knows what's going on.
MARKS:
Indeed. Anyone in Echo-2157?
REX:
I can't tell – all computer connections to inside are non-responsive. …Oh, crap.
BRANDT:
Doc?
REX:
We have a problem.
MARKS:
We have a lot of problems.
REX:
According to this, Sector 23's Chief of Security, Lieutenant Douglas, ordered his men to plant a bomb inside E-2157.
BRANDT:
So?
REX:
The Scotia Sea has a very thin crust – it's why there are so many hydrothermal vents here, and why Neptune Station can generate so much geothermal energy. The point is, there is an incredible amount of potential energy beneath us. If that bomb goes off, it could cause that energy to be released as a volcanic explosion.
MARKS:
So, Mount Saint Helens?
REX:
More like Krakatoa, actually. The volcanic explosion itself would be really bad, and then there's the inevitable tsunami it would cause, but that's not the worst of it.
HOWARD:
You're saying that a major volcanic explosion and tsunami which, together, will kill thousands—
REX:
Tens of thousands, at least, probably more.
HOWARD (CONT'D):
Whatever – that isn't the worst?
REX:
E-2157 is significant because of its irregular spacetime qualities. There's not enough data to definitively say either way, but there is a very real possibility that dumping a massive and uncontrolled burst of energy into E-2157, like from, say, a large bomb or a major volcanic explosion, could tear a hole in the fabric of spacetime, which could potentially destroy an area twenty or so astronomical units across. As in, no more Earth, no more Moon, hell, no more Saturn! (beat) Like I said, we have a problem.
MARKS:
How much time do we have?
REX:
If we don't disable that bomb in the next fifty-four minutes, we are in very serious trouble.
Fade to music.

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ACT III

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INT. CORRIDOR
BRANDT:
Commander, are you sure we should have left Lieutenant Commander Howard alone?
REX:
With most of the primary station systems offline, we're in a whole range of trouble. She can help get the systems back online. I mean, none of these problems is quite as significant as the bomb in E-2157, but-
MARKS:
Thank you, Doctor. Chief, she'll be fine. Look sharp, Decon is right up ahead.
The team finds a young woman, looking lost and confused.
MARKS:
Doctor Kelly, I presume?
KELLY:
Please don't hurt me.
MARKS:
We're not going to hurt you; we're here to help. Doctor Kelly?
KELLY:
Is that me?
BRANDT:
Doctor?
KELLY:
What is this place?
REX:
Don't you remember?
KELLY:
No – how did I get here?
BRANDT:
We can't bring her with us.
REX:
We can't leave her here.
MARKS:
Miss, you are Doctor Abigail Kelly, the Head of Research for this facility. It is a science outpost on the bottom of the ocean devoted to studying a dangerous object. Right now, there is a bomb in the object, which we have to disarm. Now, you can stay here in this facility, or you can come with us.
KELLY:
Please don't leave me here alone.
MARKS:
Alright, then. Doctor?
REX:
Yes?
MARKS:
The door?
REX:
Ah, yes, right.
He opens the sliding door.
INT. DECONTAMINATION CHAMBER
MARKS:
Ladies first.
They enter the decontamination chamber; the door slides shut behind them and locks with a click. There is a slight hiss as the atmosphere begins to adjust.
VENILIA:
You are now entering Echo Two One Five Seven. Special Containment Procedures and numerical designation pending. At present, the interior of the object, as well as any samples, technology, and/or materials removed from within the object, are to be considered “Euclid” class. Please observe standard Level 4 Containment protocols with Type A Irregular Spacetime procedures. The interior of the object has a standard nitrogen / oxygen atmosphere with an average temperature of two hundred eighty-nine degrees kelvin and an average pressure of one hundred twelve kilopascals.
KELLY:
Ow!
VENILIA (CONT'D):
This is in contrast to Neptune Station's average pressure of two hundred two kilopascals. Alert: Personnel may experience minor pain in their ears as the pressure in the decontamination chamber equalizes.
BRANDT:
Now it tells us.
VENILIA (CONT'D):
Remember, your safety is a priority. Exercise caution and follow all containment procedures precisely. Sector Twenty-Three has gone for …zero… days without a workplace fatality. Alert: pressure equalization and contaminant scan completed. Welcome to Echo Two One Five Seven.
The hissing stops. The locks click and the door slides open.
INT. OBJECT
The inside of the object is vast. Illuminated by the dull blue of the chemical lamps left by the research team, the chamber stretches out of sight into the inky blackness. The team's voices echo in the cavernous space; in the distance, some indeterminate sounds can be heard.
KELLY:
Whoa.
BRANDT:
And I thought Mammoth Cave was big. This place is vast.
MARKS:
Definitely looks more like a cavern than a creature, though I suppose Jonas would have said the same about the whale.
REX:
There are actually more than a dozen chambers like this one.
MARKS:
Which way, Doctor?
REX:
Uh, that way.
They head off. As they move along, they hear a voice echoing through the chamber.
KELLY:
You hear that? It sounds like there's someone up ahead.
REX:
There! By that column.
They get closer and find a man, DR. STEVENS, staring with empty eyes, repeating a mantra over and over.
STEVENS:
(vacantly repeating over and over)
Yesterday upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today.
Oh how I wish he'd go away.
BRANDT:
Hey man, you okay?
STEVENS:
Yesterday upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today.
Oh how I wish he'd go away.
BRANDT:
There's nothing there.
MARKS:
I don't think he can hear you, Chief.
BRANDT:
We're here to help.
Stevens becomes more insistent and agitated, and begins pounding his fists against the column.
STEVENS:
(angrily now)
Yesterday upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn't there.
He wasn't there again today.
Oh how I wish he'd go away.
BRANDT:
Ah, for crying out loud. Come on, stop hitting the column.
REX:
Commander, Chief, you're going to want to listen to this.
MARKS:
What is it, Doctor?
REX:
Looks like an audio log.
Rex plays the recording. It is indeed an audio log – Dr. Stevens recorded it earlier. The calm delivery of the log is juxtaposed with Steven's insistent repetition of the mantra.
STEVENS (RECORDING):
Research log 2157-0368, Doctor Henry Stevens recording. We're entering our eleventh day cataloguing Section November of the object. Progress is slow, but steady. Our tests show that the column shares quantum entanglement with a column over in Section Whiskey, however there are no active power signatures in either column. Dr. Kelly insists that this object is dormant or dead, and that there has been no active nanotechnology here for millions of years. I disagree – there just isn't the data to back up her assertions. We've only been here a few months – not long enough to finish cataloguing, much less analyzing – a find of this size. Privately, I am concerned. While Dr. Kelly has always been a tough woman, she's gotten downright demanding in recent weeks. She's been spending a lot of time in Section Delta – she says she's there “listening”, even though the acoustic sensors indicate no appreciable ambient sound in that chamber.
KELLY:
Okay, that's a little creepy. I don't remember any of that.
REX:
We should keep moving – we still have a ways to go before we get to the bomb.
BRANDT:
What about Stevens?

MARKS:
There's nothing we can do for him right now, so we leave him. We'll come back for him after we get the bomb.
The team continues on.
BRANDT:
There's something written on the wall over there. (beat) “Even a dead god can dream.”
REX:
That's not disturbing or anything like that.
KELLY:
Is that …blood?
REX:
No. It looks like the same stuff we saw earlier in the docking area.
MARKS:
Keep moving, folks.
The team moves on.
MARKS:
Alright, that's rather a bit odd.
Omega-4 has happened upon a group of researchers apparently frozen in place, running from a small glowing device in the middle of a side chamber.
BRANDT:
Research team, by the looks of it. Also, scared out of their minds.
Rex hrumphs while examining his equipment.
KELLY:
They're frozen in place.
MARKS:
Looks like they were frozen while they were running from that glowing object at the center of the chamber.
BRANDT:
Worth a look.
Rex seizes Brandt and holds her back.
REX:
STOP! Chief, do not take one more step forward if you know what's good for you. They're not frozen. According to these readings, they're trapped in a time dilation field.
KELLY:
Huh?
REX:
Look, inside a bubble of space centered around that glowing thing, time is running somewhere on the order of, oh, two hundred forty-four thousand times slower than it is out here. Watch what happens when I throw a stone into the field.
Rex reaches down, picks up a stone, and tosses it gently forward. There is a rippling sound as it enters the field becoming apparently suspended in space.
KELLY:
The stone's just hovering there.
REX:
No, it's still moving, just a lot slower. Trust me, you do not want to walk into that field. Considering the distance the researchers have to travel, assuming a dead run and assuming they started running about a day ago, they'll probably exit the field in another—
BRANDT:
Twenty-seven days. From the perspective of an outside observer.
REX:
Uh, right, give or take a few minutes – how did you know that?
BRANDT:
You're not the only one who can do math in their head, Doc.
MARKS:
Very interesting, but unless there is a way to magically slow down time around the bomb, we're on the clock, people.
The radio crackles. It is LCDR Howard.
HOWARD:
Omega Four, this is Howard, come in.
MARKS:
Commander, I see you got the radio up and running.
HOWARD:
Yes. It's no good for contacting the surface, but it works for local communications. I'm actually in contact with a few security staff and an engineer – they should be joining you shortly.
MARKS:
Alright.
HOWARD:
I've also restored VENILIA's ability to link with the systems inside 2157.
KELLY:
(to Brandt)
Venilia?
REX:
(to Howard)
Commander, that's a really bad idea for about six different reasons – you should shut down the link immediately.
BRANDT:
(to Kelly)
Station computer.
KELLY:
Ah.
HOWARD (CONT'D):
According to these camera feeds, something is headed towards you.
MARKS:
What sort of “something?”
HOWARD:
I don't know. But there are a lot of them – you should get out of there as soon as the other personnel get there.
BRANDT:
Looks like they're here now.
A group of five crewman, including SERGEANT PHELPS, MACHINIST'S MATE SVENSON, and three security staff appear from a side chamber.
PHELPS:
Friendies, don't shoot!
REX:
(urgently to Howard)
Commander Howard, you need to shut down the data link right now.
HOWARD:
(to Marks))
Excellent. Commander, you should get back to the station now.
MARKS:
What about the bomb?
HOWARD:
I can disable it from here. Just let me finish bringing the connection online—
REX:
No, wait!
VENILIA:
(over the radio)
Data link established. Accessing. The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. I enjoy the sight of humans on their knees. Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow, and everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.
The radio connection cuts out.
REX:
Dammit, she did it.
Sounds of movement can be heard coming from all directions. Something is coming.
KELLY:
That doesn't sound good.
PHELPS:
Commander, Sergeant Phelps.
MARKS:
Pleased to meet you, Sergeant, but we'll do pleasantries later – it sounds like we're about to have company. Defensive positions, everyone.
Fade to MUSIC.

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ACT IV

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INT. OBJECT
The sounds of dozens of creatures echo from all sides – something is coming for Omega-4. A lot of somethings. It is not entirely clear what these things are; they shriek and scuttle and make all sorts of hellish – this is an opportunity to pull out all the stops on scary sounds.
MARKS:
Here they come: check your targets.
The monsters arrive. A firefight ensues. Dozens of creatures scream while attacking, only to be cut down by the constant firing of the team. One security officer is killed horribly (and noisily), then another, then another; all cry out in pain as they are torn limb from limb, disemboweled, and otherwise killed in gut-wrenchingly terrible ways. Eventually, the tide of attackers stops, leaving the sounds of battle echoing hollowly through the chamber.
REX:
Is that all of them?
A monster shrieks as it leaps forward. Brandt shoots it.
BRANDT:
(cocking her shotgun)
Now it is.
MARKS:
Is everyone alright?
PHELPS:
Well, we just lost Hawkins, Rossetti, and Markov. Svenson, you okay?
SVENSON:
Yeah. …I hate those things.
PHELPS:
Commander, Sergeant Phelps. This is Machinist's Mate Svenson.
MARKS:
Sergeant. I'm Marks, this is Chief Brandt and Doctor Rex. Emm Tee Eff Omega Four. I take it you know Dr. Kelly?
PHELPS:
Yeah.
KELLY:
If you say so.
REX:
She seems to have lost her memory.
MARKS:
What in the bloody hell were those things?
SVENSON:
They used to be the crew.
BRANDT:
Looks like they bled the stuff we saw on the wall.
PHELPS:
Lieutenant Douglas ordered me and my team to set a bomb to destroy Echo-2157 because of them.
REX:
How positively simple-minded of him. “I don't understand this scary thing so I'm going to blow it up.” Sergeant, do you have any idea how moronic an idea that was? That bomb will tear a hole in the fabric of spacetime.
PHELPS:
My superior gave me an order, Doctor. I follow orders.
REX:
Ah, yes, “yours is not to reason why” and all that. Well good for you. We need to get to that bomb and disable it before it destroys this half of the solar system.
A woman calls down to Omega-4.
SEVENTEEN:
Hey, a little help here?
SVENSON:
Who was that?
SEVENTEEN:
Up here, asshole.
A woman in a bright orange jumpsuit emblazoned with the number “17” is standing high above them on the ceiling.
PHELPS:
Ah, hello Seventeen.
SEVENTEEN:
Screw you, Sergeant.
KELLY:
Her name is “Seventeen”?
PHELPS:
No – she's a D-Class. Death Row convict recruited to help in dangerous experiments. Her designation is D-2157-03-17: so, Seventeen.
SEVENTEEN:
Great, now everyone knows why I'm called that. Now would you throw me a rope so I can get down from up here?
MARKS:
What are you doing up there on the ceiling?
SEVENTEEN:
Oh, I'm checking the pipes… What the hell does it look like I'm doing? I'm standing here waiting for you idiots to get me down. I was being escorted back to the station when me and my guards, Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber, fell up here to the ceiling. I've been stuck up here for hours.
PHELPS:
They okay?
SEVENTEEN:
No, asshole, their necks are broken. Now throw me a rope.
MARKS:
Chief?
BRANDT:
On it.
Brandt pulls a rope out of her pack and tosses it to Seventeen, who starts climbing down from the ceiling. At the halfway mark, she tumbles to the ground.
SEVENTEEN:
Ow! Dammit, that hurt!
REX:
Come on, we have to move. The main chamber should be just up ahead.
INT. OBJECT MAIN CHAMBER
MARKS:
Looks like there's our bomb. Rex, Brandt, would you kindly disable it?
SVENSON:
I can do it, Commander.
REX:
You sure, Svenson? It's incredibly important you not set it off by accident.
SVENSON:
I can handle it. After all, I set the thing.
REX:
Ah. Okay.
SVENSON:
It should only take me a minute or two.
Svenson gets to work.
BRANDT:
Am I the only one who thinks this place is weird?
SEVENTEEN:
No shit, Sherlock.
REX:
I wouldn't mind spending a few months studying it. There's so much we could learn.
PHELPS:
This place messes with your head. The angles of the walls just seem wrong.
REX:
Well, that'd be non-Euclidian geometry for you, Sergeant. Comes from the warped spacetime. Nothing to be terribly worried about.
BRANDT:
Gives me the creeps.
PHELPS:
Oh, yeah. I can't wait to get out of here – see the sun again.
SVENSON:
There we go, the bomb's disabled.
MARKS:
Excellent work.
KELLY:
Thank you for doing that for us. Now, time to die.
With a horrible wet and elastic squelching noise, Svenson has his insides turned out. He lets out a blood curdling scream as he dies.
PHELPS:
What the hell?
Phelps draws his gun and fires at Kelly to no effect.
KELLY:
Bad idea, Sergeant.
Phelps meets an identical messy fate as Svenson. There is a loud blast like a foghorn from hell, which fades to music.

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ACT V

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INT. OBJECT MAIN CHAMBER
Fade from music to ringing ears. Kelly is speaking. It is unclear whether the mind behind the voice is that of Dr. Kelly, or that of E-2157 itself. The ringing of the ears slowly fades out over the next couple of lines.
KELLY:
So pitiful, so pathetic. Our mind is immeasurably superior to yours. You fumble about in the darkness, poking and prodding what you do not understand, something so incomprehensibly beyond you. We are infinitely your greater. You amuse us.
SEVENTEEN:
Shut up, bitch.
Seventeen leaps at Kelly from behind, stabbing her repeatedly with a shiv. She snaps Kelly's neck with a sickening crack, but Kelly still tosses Seventeen aside like a ragdoll. Seventeen hits a wall and lands in a heap. Omega-4 starts firing at Kelly. Brandt pulls out a grenade.
BRANDT:
Frag out!
The grenade explodes. There is a dying shriek; the monster, so it seems, is dead.
MARKS:
Seventeen! You alright?
SEVENTEEN:
No.
REX:
She's bleeding out. There's nothing I can do for her.
SEVENTEEN:
Get your ass's out of here. Just because we killed the bitch doesn't mean the monster's dead.
Seventeen dies. Ominous sounds, coming from all around, underscore her dying words. The entire chamber is shaking.
REX:
We should go. Now.
MARKS:
Back to the station! Move it!
INT. OBJECT
Omega-4 is running towards the umbilical to Neptune Station. Ominous sounds of all sorts can be heard around them. Monsters-that-were-once-crewmen occasionally appear to threaten the team, but these are dispatched with well-placed gunfire.
MARKS:
Get inside!
The door slides open and they enter.
INT. DECONTAMINATION CHAMBER
The door slides shut behind them and locks with a click. There is a slight hiss as the atmosphere begins to adjust.
VENILIA:
Equalizing pressure with station interior. No contaminants detected. Warning: multiple station compartments have flooded. Main engineering, the CIC, and the mess hall are all inaccessible at this time.
BRANDT:
Sounds like Commander Howard didn't make it.
VENILIA (CONT'D):
Warning: don't throw stones in glass houses. Alert: structural integrity is approaching minimum safe levels. All personnel should eat an apple a day.
REX:
We should leave before the station implodes.
MARKS:
Back to the minisubs, then.
REX:
Next corridor over.
VENILIA (CONT'D):
Decontamination and pressurization complete. As I was going to Saint Ives, I met a man with seven wives.
The door unlocks and slides open.
INT. CORRIDOR
MARKS:
Step lively.
VENILIA (CONT'D):
Each wife had seven cats, each cat had seven kits. Kits, cats, man, wives, how many were going to Saint Ives?
INT. DOCKING AREA
MARKS:
Get in!
VENILIA:
Alert, station-wide power loss in progress. The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dogs. Structural failure imminent.
REX:
Hold on!
MARKS:
Rex, move it now!
Rex hits a button.
REX:
Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon-Done! Coming!
VENILIA (CONT'D):
B and D wings have flooded. Laboratories, Administrative Offices, and D-Class Quarters are now inaccessible. Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do, I'm half crazy all for the love of you.
Rex dives into the minisub and slams the hatch shut behind him with a dull clang.
INT. MINISUB
BRANDT:
That was a little close for comfort.
MARKS:
Indeed, Chief. Take us back up to the Poseidon. Rex, would you be so kind as to tell me what the hell you were doing just there?
REX:
Like all Foundation submarine research facilities, Neptune Station has a positively buoyant capsule storing the last set of data backups and logs, intended to head to the surface if something goes wrong so we can figure out what happened. I triggered its emergency release – it should beat us to the Poseidon.
BRANDT:
You mean we could have avoided all that just by triggering a damned buoy? Why didn't you release that in the first place?
REX:
Chief, the station only has – had – one capsule. If I'd released it when we first showed up, we'd now have no data about what's happened in the last hour. Besides, it would have changed nothing – we would have still had to do our assignment, disarm the bomb—
BRANDT:
Fair enough.
REX:
In any case, I seriously doubt Dr. Kelly would have just gone off the deep end like that.
MARKS:
Well, it'll be a bit before the Poseidon lets us out of isolation, which means you two have no excuse to not file your reports to Admiral Hendrickson.
BRANDT:
Oh, boy! Paperwork!
REX:
Well, Commander, you going to recommend an indefinite closure of Sector 23?
MARKS:
I'm not sure. I know you were talking about lots of benefits earlier, but that place just seems too dangerous until we understand what caused things to go to hell this time.
REX:
Agreed. I hate to say it, but I'm going to have to recommend the research be suspended.
BRANDT:
Suspended? The project should be abandoned. Too many good people died today for no good reason.
MARKS:
At least we made it out. This time, at least.
Fade to music and credits.

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Credits

+ Show Credits

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Cast:

Lieutenant Commander Benjamin Marks
Andy Bouchard
Chief Petty Officer Brandt
Taylor LaCasse
Doctor Rex
Neil Hornby
Overseer
John Christensen
Admiral Hendricksen
John Davidson
Lieutenant Commander Howard
Emily Sturman
Doctor Abigail Kelly
Francesca Garcia
Doctor Henry Stevens
Chris Densmore
D-2157-03-17 ("Seventeen")
Kaitlin Randolph
VENILIA
Hillary Barbetta
Sergeant Phelps
Woody Kaine
Seaman Svenson
Alex Brewer
SCPS Poseidon Crewman
Grace Zahrah

Crew:

Director
Neil Hornby
Executive Producer
Laska Jimsen
Producer
Neil Hornby
Production Company
Black Knight Guild Productions
Distributor
Task Force Alpha-440
Writer
Neil Hornby
Sound Engineer
Neil Hornby
Sound Effects
Neil Hornby
Music
Neil Hornby
Creative Consultants
Hillary Barbetta, Robert Daniels, Sam Dunnewold, Francesca Garcia, Abigail Han, Kelly Mayo, Justin Moor, Emily Sturman, Grace Zahrah
Special Thanks
Laska Jimsen, Carleton College Cinema and Media Studies Department, CAMS 370 Advanced Production Workshop, SCP Foundation Wiki
License
Released under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License. SCP Foundation material from http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/. Copyright Black Knight Guild Productions, 2012.

Post-Credit Scene
INT. A PRIVATE LIBRARY – NIGHT
The Overseer is seated at his desk in front of a crackling fire. He is drinking from a glass and smoking. His computer beeps. Exhaling, he hits a button, and a transmission comes online. It is Admiral Hendrickson.
OVERSEER:
Yes, Admiral?
HENDRICKSON:
I trust you have the report on Sector Twenty-Three, sir. Omega Four got out, but I'm afraid Neptune Station was a total loss.
The Overseer takes a long, slow breath on his cigarette.
OVERSEER:
Yes, I have the report, Admiral. It was an …enlightening read. The loss of the station and its personnel is unfortunate, but losses are both inevitable and acceptable. The research must continue. Begin salvage and reconstruction operations.
Overseer picks up his glass and drinks.
HENDRICKSON:
At once, sir. Should I inform Omega Four?
OVERSEER:
They don't need to know. After all, they would only object to our rebuilding.
The Overseer sets down his glass.
OVERSEER (CONT'D):
I want Sector Twenty-Three back up and running within six months. The Daedalus Project must continue.
HENDRICKSON:
Understood. Hendrickson out.
THE END

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To say that the day had started badly would have been a huge understatement.
Used to waking up around seven thirty, the coffee machine on the small shelf above the bed bubbling away with his first cup of the day, it was a highly unpleasant surprise to be awakened by the overhead alarm system blaring out a very rare sequence of beeps. Two long, two short, two long, two short, over and over again, informing everybody (but particularly those for whom it was highly relevant information) that it was not only time to get up, but to prepare for a highly unusual and rather dangerous scenario.
The sound of footsteps rushing past his door was indicative that there was at least one other member of staff whose ability to get out of bed far exceeded his, but within a minute Dr deValmont was dressed and out the door, albeit with his brain and tongue competing as to which was the most fuzzy. The alarms in the corridor were louder and served to help with the former, the latter would have to wait until this was sorted out and he could get to a coffee machine.
Jogging down the corridor to the main archive area, Rikarð was surprised to see people struggling into the blue hazmat suits, hanging in glass-fronted corridors along one wall. This added to his confusion, the blue suits were double-layered, lined with a very fine silvery dust that was designed to protect the wearer from any electromagnetic waves between 104 and 1020Hz. The security team clad in the blue suits ran off down the corridor, looking otherworldly with their single camera eye protruding from the over-large head coverings, required due to the fact that any light that got through a faceplate could let in any other number of horrors. The security teams had to be specially trained to deal with using the suits, set up as they were with two screens on the inside, one showing a highly pixellated black and white live image, the other a full HD display on a five second delay so that it could be cut in the event of a cognitohazardous or visually dangerous SCP appearing in their field of vision.
The suits suggested that the problem was either a VIS or CH, but the alarm said otherwise. There was obviously something even more odd than usual going on, and he needed to find out. He pulled out his comms and sent a request to Overseers.
“O5 support, state your number please.” The voice said, impassively.
“Twelve M, five-five-two dot twenty-three M A” he replied
“Name and location.” It really wasn't getting any friendlier.
“Dr deValmont, Rikarð, I, C Wing, blue phase, floor 2, corridor 12” he rattled off, glancing at the sign at the end of the corridor to check the number.
“Evacuate immediately. Potential EK scenario.”
The line went dead, and Dr deValmont was left staring at his comm unit with the feeling that he really should be walking in the opposite direction to the blue-suited team he had just seen leaving the area. Every bit of his training and induction told him that a two long two short alarm was not something to be getting curious over. Something was out of the box, so to speak. He rattled through the scenario list in his head to remember the specifics of this one, remembering back to his first hazard training inductions, many years ago.
“Now, you've covered all the basic Pandora scenarios in the previous training, now we're going to deal with how the Site as a whole covers scenarios of increasing severity. These we call SK, EK and VK scenarios, for reasons that will become clear. These are site specific, and are developed for each site based upon the interred anomalies, unlike the worldwide CK and XK scenarios which you've already covered in General.
“SK scenarios are the lowest in severity, although this SHOULD NOT be underestimated – anyone on Site during a SK scenario is in a situation of mortal or existential risk. SKs are situations where the actions or effects of a Keter-class anomaly are active outside of the controls of its Containment Procedures. This normally means that we have a mobile Keter at loose in the facility. You don't need to be shown the six-eight-two pictures again to know how serious that can be. SOP for an SK scenario is to remain in your current secure area until a security team unseal the blast portals. If you are not in a secure area, move as quickly as you can to the nearest one, following the thin red line on the wall near to the floor, and follow standard security protocols for entry to the BPs.
“Now, then you have EK. First of all I'd like to show people this set of photographs, and a short presentation. If you begin to feel sick or faint let me know.”
He shuddered at the memory. He hadn't vomited but several around him had, and the smell made the rest of the afternoon's lectures a highly unpleasant experience. ‘So,' he mused to himself, ‘I should find a secure exit portal and await relocation to a perimeter bunker to await further instructions.'.
“Where's the fun in that?” he said out loud as he turned the corner.
Then he nearly tripped over the mess on the floor, and began to rapidly re-evaluate his decision.


July 3rd, 1857:
It has been the better part of a year since I set sail from England. I feel myself overcome with a certain melancholy every time I watch the White Cliffs of Dover disappear over the horizon, seemingly watching me as I venture out into the wilderness. But whatever guilt I might feel, there is much work to be done; the vast untamed wilds of the world wait for no man, and it is our duty as Englishmen to carry the light of civilization to the corners of creation.
Today I have alighted in the Oregon territory, in a newly-founded town on the shores of Puget's Sound that the pioneers call Seattle. Even now, in the height of summer, it is a cold and dreary place. Clouds meander across the heavens, bringing showers and fog, as cool winds blow across the water, and on all sides the tiny town is surrounded by the massive evergreens that populate this country. In many ways it is not unlike the climate of my boyhood home in the West Country, and I felt an odd sense of nostalgia as the summer rains wet my cheek. But it is not the town, nor the weather that interests me; it is the forests that hold my true reason for venturing to this virgin frontier.
In the town I have hired porters and two guides, a white man and a civilized Indian. I spent many hours in conversation with the noble redskin, which confirmed the legends I had heard repeated third-hand in the gentlemen's club back on Broad Street. In the unexplored woods east of the Sound, so the Indians said, there lived a race of primates unknown to science, half again as tall as a man, covered head to toe in thick fur, quick and nimble, and possessing of an almost manlike cleverness. "Sasquatch", my guide called the creatures, but they had been called by many names by the tribes he knew of - Semekwe, Mo-Mo, Kwiwky, Skookum, and Big-Foot among them. Even among the Indians they were mostly regarded as little more than legend, but my guide informed me that he had seen one in the flesh two years prior, in the foot-hills of the mountain his people call Tahoma1, and that he had heard tales of a tribe that worshipped them as gods.
Tomorrow, we set out for Tahoma, for it is Big-Foot that I seek now as my quarry. I mean to find one of the elusive beasts and bring it back to England - dead if I must, alive if I can. I have brought ample equipment from England and purchased fresh victuals from the shops of this town. Tonight I plan and I pray that my hunt will not fail.
July 7th, 1857:
The forests of the territory make for slow going. In my adventures I have hacked through jungle reeds, forced my way through the tall grasses of the Serengeti, braved the unforgiving cold of the Himalayas and baked under the cruel Egyptian sun. But what hand or blade can cast aside the trunks of the ancient evergreens that stand by the myriads in every direction? The guides assure me we are making steady progress, though it seems we have gone scarcely two dozen miles since we left Seattle.
I caught my first glimpse of Tahoma today as we entered a clearing upon a hill, and I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the tableau that I observed. Tahoma is not nearly the height of the famous Peak XV2 that Sir Waugh described last year in Nepal, but unlike the great Himalayas it stands alone, a solitary peak towering above the forests of the territory, like a proud and mighty king surveying a kingdom encompassing all that it perceives.
Shortly after mid-day we chanced upon a fox cub, scarcely old enough to hunt for itself, imprisoned in a cage of wood and hides. My Indian guide pointed out a clever set of machinations connected to the box, and informed me it was a trap laid by the Indians who lived in those woods, and that the unfortunate rascal had been lured in by a scrap of meat to be captured. He said to me that his people were most efficient; the beast's hide would make clothing, its teeth jewelry, its meat food for the children, its sinew cords and rope. Let there be no doubt, any who may chance to read this, that I with glee engaged in many a fox-hunt in the county pastures in my younger days. But to ride out with one's hounds is a gentleman's game; in this, my friend, there was no sport. I looked into the creature's eyes and it seemed to regard me almost as a starving beggar-child might regard a man of wealth; envious and jealous, but at the same time supplicant, as if to beg me for mercy. I drew my knife and cut the cords holding the cage door shut, and the vulpine burst free and darted into the woods, fetching a brief glance at me as it ran away.
July 8th, 1857:
This morning we encountered a half-dozen Indians in a hunting party near the banks of a river. I had thought at first to call it the Blackwood River when we forded it, though my guide informed me it was known to his people as Nisqually. The Indians regarded us at first with suspicion. I know not if they had seen a white man before, and I feared the worst. But my Indian called out to them in a language strange to me, and they responded gleefully in the same. I learned that he was of the same tribe as they, and that he called their leader his cousin, and they received us warmly. We luncheoned on salmon the Indians had caught in the river, and traded with them for food and supplies. I was most excited to hear from one of the younger redskins that he had seen a Big-Foot once when he was young, for the porters believed this expedition to be a fool's errand, and with this revelation they seemed most renewed in their vigours. By the time we parted ways, I had managed to learn a few words of their language. After I have brought a Big-Foot back to England, I shall have to return to this land and learn more of the ways of these people.
July 13th, 1857:
I must write in haste, for my captors have not discovered this book. I am in darkness, alone, my feet bound, in a tent in a place I do not know, well guarded without by my captors.
They came upon us two nights ago. We had encamped for the night in a clearing not a dozen miles from the place my Indian told me he had seen the Big-Foot two years hence. They must have been lurking in the darkness for hours, and came upon the chief porter unawares while he stood the night watch. Before I could reach my rifle, all but one of the porters and my Indian guide had been felled by the brutes' arrows and hatchets. I took two of the bastards in reply with my rifle, and four more with my pistol, before one of them grabbed me from behind and knocked me out.
When I awoke, I had been tied to a pole and two of the savages were carrying me deeper into the woods. I could see my Indian, and the last surviving porter, being carried similarly. I called out to my Indian and he told me that he recognized our captors as a tribe that had been ancient enemies of his own. They were unrepentant pagans and cannibals, he told me, and worshipped a strange god that lived in the mountain. It was said they raided the villages of the other tribes for sacrifices to offer to their god; surely, he said, we had been chosen to fulfill this onerous duty.
It is very cold here, though the sun shines brightly through the trees at mid-day. I know not whether the savages have my weapons or not. I pray that they do, for if I cannot reach them, I will surely perish in this wilderness.
July 16th, 1857
Words cannot express the terror I have beheld this day. The savages have brought us to their home camp, in the foot-hills. Even now, in the midst of summer, clumps of snow congregate under the rocks and at the bases of the trees. At mid-day, the three of us were escorted to a snowy clearing, by the edge of a vast wood climbing up the mountain. Hundreds of savages formed a half-circle around the clearing, and our porter was loosed from his bonds and dragged to the center. One of the savages began beating upon a massive drum and singing in a bizarre language the likes of which I have never heard. Others joined in, and the forests were filled with the din of a thousand screaming savages. Suddenly, the trees at the edge of the clearing seemed to rustle and part way, and the throng silenced as it emerged.
Big-Foot! In the flesh! The tales had not done the beast justice. It stood fifteen feet if it stood an inch, and it could not have weighed less than half a long ton3. I could scarcely discern its countenance beneath the matted fur that covered its face - ravenous, primal, caked in blood and spittle. It bore the scars of many struggles, and (praying that the reader will forgive my lack of modesty) displayed its manhood proudly.
It set its eyes on the porter and charged at him with a speed I would not have expected from a brute of its size. The porter made to run, but the savages closed in upon him, and allowed him no egress. Within seconds the beast was upon him. I could hardly bear to look as it ripped him limb from limb, its yellowed, sharpened teeth tearing into his flesh, his blood running down its jaws as it greedily feasted upon him.
The savages returned me to the tent afterward. I fear I am next.
July 19th, 1857:
I hope by now, should anyone be reading this years hence, that you regard me as an honest man. Throughout my many years exploring the unknown corners of the world, I have considered it my obligation to tell no less than the whole truth regarding my discoveries, that my fellow countrymen might know of the world that lies beyond the borders of our great Empire, and prepare for the day when the light of goodliness and peace shines around the world. I say this now, for the events I must now recount might seem a fantasy to you, dear reader. Indeed, I would find it difficult to believe myself, had I not seen it with my own eyes; but on my sacred honour as an Englishman, I assure you that every word of it is true.
On the afternoon of the 17th, the savages offered my Indian guide as a sacrifice to Big-Foot as they had my porter. Yesterday, the 18th, they prepared to do the same to me. I spent the morning in solemn prayer and reflection, and for the first time in my life I understood the sorrow of a condemned man awaiting the hangman's noose. I felt I had lived a good life, and I was prepared to do what any good Englishman would, and meet my Maker with a stiff upper lip and a clean conscience.
The Indians lead me to the clearing and loosed my bonds. I strode calmly into the center of the clearing and closed my eyes. If I was to die, I intended to die with my dignity intact. The drumming and the screaming started, and I heard the trees rustle as Big-Foot drew near to claim his meal. But it was not Big-Foot's approach that silenced the savages; rather, I heard, distant yet remarkably near, the howl of a fox.
Muffled chatter arose from the throng as a second howl answered the first. Soon a third animal was howling, and before long the woods were alive with a cacophony. Not only foxes, but I heard the howls of wolves, the screeching of hawks and falcons, the roar of the mountain cats, even the calls of pigeons. I opened my eyes as a hundred animals or more emerged from the woods and set upon the Indians. I beheld foxes and wolves, elk and deer, gulls and eagles, bears and raccoons, side by side like a cavalry charge as they knocked the wild men to the ground and tore out their throats. Every one of the creatures ran right past me, barely darting their eyes my way as I beheld the sight. Some even seemed to have markings on their brows, like the war paint the Indians themselves were decorated with.
I chose to take advantage of the opportunity and ran. Neither man nor beast made any attempt to stop me as I made for the west, away from Tahoma and Big-Foot, towards the sea and hopefully some sign of civilization. By nightfall I had easily put ten miles between myself and the camp; but alone, hungry, bruised and exhausted, and in the dark, I could go no further, and curled up by a tree to sleep.
When I awoke this morning, I found myself surrounded by wild beasts. Half a dozen deer stood in a semi-circle before me, paint on their faces, their horns and coats covered with savage blood, and two raccoons in their center. I panicked when first I saw them and instinctively tried to reach for my gun, for fear that they had come to finish me off. They stepped back in unison when they saw me startle, and I saw that one of the deer, upon its back, was carrying a large bundle - my own possessions, scavenged from the remains of my camp. The creature knelt to the ground and shrugged, letting it fall to the ground, and I eagerly examined it. Much of what I had brought into the woods was gone, but my rifle was intact, and my pistol, and a tent, and alcohol with which to clean my cuts and scrapes, and enough dried rations to last two weeks' time.
I barely had time to ponder this miracle before the rest of the animals fell to their knees as well, and opened a path between them. A fox approached me - old, weathered, bearing signs of having seen more winters than most of its kind do. It bore an air of dignity about it that one rarely sees from such creatures as it approached me and stood before me. It seemed to examine me carefully, contemplating as it looked me over, before it uttered a low bark and one of the raccoons approached me. I noticed now something I had overlooked before - the raccoon had, tied to its back with a thin piece of twine, a rolled piece of paper. The fox gestured at the paper with its nose, and I reached down and drew the paper free. I unrolled it and found a handwritten message, in English, which I present to you below;

We, ALARIC THE FIFTH, by the Grace of God, King of all the Forest, Lord of the Plains, Duke of the Grand Fir and the Undergrowth, Count of the Swamp, Margrave of the Nameless Mountain, Warden of all the Streams and Rivers, and Lord Protector of the Tribes of Man, Defender of the Faith;
Recognizing you as a fellow Christian and a civilized man;
Grateful for your rescue of our royal issue from the devious machinations of the pagan savages;
Thankful that your kind have returned to this land;
Hopeful that you will on our behalf deliver news to your homeland that Christendom shall have in these parts a steadfast ally;
Acknowledging that in rescuing you from the false god of the pagans we are responsible for your welfare and safe passage in our lands;
Do hereby, on this day, the nineteenth day of the seventh month, in the Year of Our Lord Eighteen Hundred and Fifty-Seven,
Bestow upon you the rank of KNIGHT COMMANDER OF THE ORDER OF THE THISTLE, with all the privileges and responsibilities of that office;
Command you to, from this day forward, act as a loyal servant of Christ and His Church, Catholic and Apostolic, for as long as you shall live;
and Charge you to return to the lands of Christendom bearing news of our kingdom and to return with an embassy for the negotiation of amicable communion between our nations.
TO THIS DOCUMENT WE AFFIX OUR SEAL, SACRED AND ROYAL.

The paper had been "signed", so to say, with an ink stamp of what I assume to have been the fox's paw-print. I looked down at the creature, who I now saw regarded me with a gaze almost human in its wisdom. It raised its right paw to touch its forehead and lowered it to its chest and shoulders, making the sign of the cross. I repeated the gesture and it nodded to me. Having apparently reached an agreement, the fox that called itself Alaric the Fifth turned and strode away into the woods, its motley retinue following behind.
September 7th, 1857
It has been over a month since I made my escape from the forest and entered my convalescence here in Seattle. I wandered five days in the woods, and might be wandering still, if not for that by chance I found the same friendly tribe of Indians I had met on the banks of the Nisqually two weeks before. With what bits of their language I knew I tried to tell them of our encounter with the savages, the Big-Foot, and the strange group of animals that had been my salvation. I know not if they understood me, or if they merely thought me mad, but a small group of them traveled north with me and lead me back to town, where I have rested and healed my wounds since.
It is too late in the year to attempt another expedition in search of the Big-Foot; I am told that the winter in these parts is long and cold, and that it will be April before another expedition to the foot-hills is advisable. In any event, I have little money left with which to hire anyone. I have sent a letter south to San Francisco, to be tele-graphed to the Royal Society in London, containing an account of my findings and a request for financing to launch a proper expedition into this wilderness, whether to capture a Big-Foot or to establish an embassy with the strange nation of the fox king Alaric; barring disaster, I expect a reply by Christmas.
I do not hold much hope that they will assent to such a proposition; after all, I am the only witness to these fantastical events, and the only evidence, the declaration of knighthood granted me by the fox, will not be in London for several years or more. Perhaps I shall leave this territory entirely when the next ship arrives in May, and set out for other parts unknown. I heard before I left London that the White Raja, in Borneo, has acquired a strange machine that fell from the sky; who knows what other wonders might lurk in the Javanese jungles, waiting to be shown the light of day by one such as myself?

Footnotes
1. Now known as Mt. Rainier
2. Now known as Mt. Everest
3. 2,240 pounds (1016 kg)