The crowbar smashes into the balloon-like head of what used to be the hotel bartender, scattering thick, purple sludge across the walls and roof of the abandoned bar. A figure in a white, hooded cloak, decorated with a set of metallic wings on the hood, lets out a sigh of relief after having been surprised by the now dead Strange. Circling the loudly breathing mouth on the floor, he walks over to the bar and vaults over it. A cloud of dust skitters away from the first boots they've seen in years and his cloak sends a lapel pin shaped like a pentagram clattering on the floor. He quickly pockets it.
"You don't mind if I borrow this, do you?" he asks the bartender while snatching a bottle of vodka from behind the bar. The corpse does not respond. He looks down at the bottle, the light of his eyes reflecting off the glass. 'Mirage, from the Spirit Co' reads the faded, green label. The man chuckles upon seeing his name.
"It's a match made in heaven," he says as he unscrews the bottle and chugs it down, only to be met with the all too familiar taste of iron.
"Fuck!" he spits, throwing the bottle on the floor. "Every time! Can a man not get a proper drink in the apocalypse?"
Stepping away from the pool of blood forming around shards of glass, Mirage goes and sits on the edge of a giant hole in the wall, setting his eyes on a familiar sight. Tall buildings with flickering neon signs, a purple sky, from which a giant, yellow eye stares down at the city, and a large sign in the distance that reads 'Welcome to LAS LOST VEGAS, Nevada'.
He leans forward and lets himself fall.

As soon as he detaches from the ledge, Mirage is met with a barrage of winds, their invisible, puny fists punching him in the face as he plummets. He grasps at the corners of the cloak fluttering behind him, and spreads it taut into one large wing. The punches turn into gentle grazes, and falling turns into a peaceful glide.
With trained hands, he constantly adjusts the cloak ever so slightly to adapt to the winds, and to reign them in his command.
The sky is peaceful. Safe. High in the air, Mirage feels detached from the city that sprawls underneath. That jungle of crumbling concrete and ash. An unsatiated graveyard of civilization, its fires still burning after a millennium. When the threads that support reality began to fray, Vegas, already sprawling with the anomalous, was one of the first to fall. The tumultuous expanse of magic was devastating, causing the city to shift and change in all sorts of terrible ways. Humans who weren't changed either died or fled, and now only the Strange remain.
As strange as the city is, a passing glance from up high might betray your eyes. Many of the lights are still on. There's music coming for the casinos, and cars on the street, though they no longer move. Once you train your eyes and look closer though, the nature of the city reveals itself. The ruby lights of eternal demonic revelries catch Mirage's eyes, beaming out of windows as they cast silhouettes of lost souls trapped in a never-ending dance. Drifting above, he can spot the tentacles of the Shifting Sands of Mandalay Bay peeking out of sewers in search of new things to add to its growing mass of sand and bone. The bloody graffiti drawn by the lions as prayers to their dark, golden gods, and the neon ghosts zapping in and around Neonopolis, the jewel of Fremont Street. Like the white spot in the center of an abscess, the huge shopping mall sticks out of the surrounding ruins in all of its multicolored glory.
Allowing himself into an increasing descent, Mirage pivots to the right, riding the current as he encircles the complex in a tightening spiral, until eventually tucking his feet in and rolling safely on to the roof.
Descending into the building itself, Mirage makes his way through maintenance corridors like he has a thousand times before. It doesn't take long before the dark, tight space emerges out into a hall of massive proportions, illuminated by dozens of signs, billboards and a large, swirling mass of stars and nebulae in the ceiling. Things have fallen mostly into disrepair, but the lights are still on, advertisements are still up, and operational screens still portray the same old messages that they did since this all started: "The Government has declared a State of Emergency. Make way to your local shelters", "All life in New York has mysteriously disappeared. Will you be next?", and "All is fine. Trust in Us. You have no need to worry. Just come up and touch the screen and we'll tell you everything you need to know. You know you want to. Then you can just sit back and relax. Trust in us." Mirage does his best to avoid eye contact with the latter.

Rest of the way has been permanently etched into his muscle memory. He goes past the axe throwing ground and ducks, a sharp gust of wind whipping his hood as a hatchet thrown by an angry poltergeist sails overhead. Then he quickly scampers past Heart Attack Grill. Trying to not be noticed by the rolling mass of fat and eyes and mouths serving an infinite wave of burgers to emaciated ghouls desperately trying to consume them, as muffled screams escape from a giant beating heart in the corner. Mirage is actively trying not to theorize where the meat in the patties comes from. Next is the Toy Shack, a vintage toy shop. A cymbal monkey sits in the display window, its round, unblinking marble eyes following him as he goes past. Now approaching his destination, he trains his ears, hiding every time he hears cycling accompanied by the hissing of a crocodile.
Lurking behind a corner, Mirage watches as a four-eyed lizard on a unicycle rolls past, long snout looking for prey. After making sure that the wheeled beast is within a safe distance, Mirage scampers towards a somewhat welcome sight. A pair of broken glass doors with a sign above them that reads "The Metropolitan Gallery of Las Vegas". Upon entry, Mirage lets out a long sigh of relief, which turns into a pronounced 'harumpf' of frustration near the end, as he sets his eyes on the same old, faded paintings for the who-knows-how-manyeth time. His rapid footsteps echo through the corridors, mixing with seething muttering.
"Physical paint, how arbitrary and boring… these are not even 3D. Where's the pizzazz? Where's the danger? Nowhere I can see, but here they are. In a gallery for all the world to see, and the world accepts it like a herd of sheep. Nobody appreciates real art anymore…" he says, unknowingly fondling the cracked crystal hanging off his belt.
Tucked in the most remote corner of the gallery is a sleeping bag, a small table, an assortment of water bottles and canned foods, and a cracked mirror. The reflection of his light bouncing off the silvery surface, Mirage catches a glimpse of his hooded face. The glowing eyes that constantly bleed a black ichor, the stretched mouth, the hooked nose. With a sharp inhale, he turns away. With forced intent, he refocuses on unloading the contents of his satchel, which are mostly comprised of even more food cans to add to his collection.
"Fuck," Mirage curses as he notices to have accidentally grabbed a can of tuna. "Not falling for that anymore. Almost drowned the last time". He rolls the can down a corridor, before collapsing on top of the sleeping bag. He closes his eyes, hoping for the elusive creature known as sleep to catch him. Waiting, he idly watches as the green and red shapes swirl within the darkness, pulsating and flowing, following the movements of his eyes. A while passes and the shapes begin to congregate and merge into new shapes and colors, like the pieces of a puzzle slowly coming together, until eventually, their form becomes recognizable. Soon the backs of his eyelids are plastered entirely with images of the paintings that taint the walls of the Metropolitan. The same old fucking paintings that he has had to look at for years, day after day. Those goddamn paintings that stupid idiots enjoy more than his art!
Screaming, Mirage shoots up, grabbing his crowbar. With determined, large steps, he marches up to the aisles. Tossing the weapon in his hands, he walks slowly down the corridor, staring at both walls from under his brow, like sizing up an opponent. Then, he stops, and with a swift blow to the side, decimates the frame of a painting. It flops front down onto the floor with a defeated thump. The rest of the paintings on the wall rattle from the impact, as if shivering in fear.
The relative peace the paintings have enjoyed for a millennium, quietly hanging and fading away, is broken as the fury of a pissed off artist turns into a whirlwind of metal and rage. Paintings, carefully crafted for weeks are shredded into slices and wooden frames break into a hail of splinters and fragments. They stick in Mirages hands and face like pins and needles, but he is too distracted, too enveloped in his own screams to notice.
"Take that, Sean Scully! That's what you get for hogging the spotlight!"
Grabbing a storage container, Mirage hurls it across the room, paper and art supplies flying out as it does. A temporal anomaly causes some items to slow down, flying through the air at a cumbersome pace, while others stop entirely. Snatching a bottle of spray paint, Mirage rolls the striker of his lighter.
"It's all just physical!
Nothing but colors!
There is no effect,
no risk,
no reward.
Just a bunch of pretty pictures!"
He screams as a gout of flame bursts out of the can like the breath of a dragon. The fire catches on the remaining paintings and the debris in the air, turning the inside of the gallery into a roaring firestorm.
Pushing through smoke and flame, his white cloak coated in soot, Mirage grabs his crowbar again, as he sets his sights on a marble statue standing valiantly against the destruction. With large, powerful swings, he brings the quickly heating metal down again and again, as more and more pieces of rebar crumble and collapse.
"You would think that when the Veil broke, us anartists would finally get the chance to shine but nOoOo!" he screams through the smoke starting to fill up the room and flood into his lungs.
"It was still just Picasso that, Monet this.
Well, Picasso!
Can!
Go!
Fuck!
HIMSELF!" he shouts, each word accompanied with a furious whack.
"And why on Earth is there a gift shop? Is that what art is to you people? A business? Just an advertisement for merchandise? Do you think you're cool yet? Do you think you're so fucking cool you little piss babies?" he asks, but only echoes answer. He lifts his crowbar high for a final blow.

"I am the coolest around here!" The crowbar comes crashing down on the head of the sculpture, exploding it like a melon. Pieces of stone fly outwards in every direction, a particularly sharp piece slicing into Mirage's cheek, a line of crimson trailing behind it. He leans back and lifts his foot up high. Everything slows down. Mirage sees the fire and the smoke dancing amidst one another, mixing and forming into shapes and scenes. The smoldering remains of canvases float in the air, like fireflies in the night. His foot, on a slow but unavoidable collision course, pierces through the ever-shifting visual cacophony of light and dark, as it presses against the statue with a force that nearly sends Mirage sprawling. The leverage force separates the statue from its pedestal, and it falls backwards. Displacing embers that escape around its sides it crashes down, like a meteor burning in the atmosphere. Finally, after being stuck in a descent for a short eternity, it hits the floor. It breaks into thousands of little pieces that slide across the surface, and disappears into the smoke.
Regaining some of his sensibility, or what was left of it in the first place, Mirage finally realizes that everything is not fine, that he is in danger, as his head begins to spin. Smoke and embers burning his eyes, he scampers to what he thinks is the direction of the exit. Through either muscle memory or sheer luck, or perhaps the decision of some entity with a sense of humor, Mirage forces his way through the heat, until his intake of breath no longer consists of fire and carbon monoxide. The air ripples, as he jumps out of the glass door and breaks through the time dilation. After getting within a relatively safe distance, his legs decide that they have done their work for the day, and refuse to move, while his upper body still attempts to push forwards, causing him to fall on his face, coughing his lungs out.
"We never were cool, were we?" he whispers from between cracked lips as some of the smoke clears from his brain. He drags himself across the floor to a wall, where he sits for a while, simply staring at the smoke pouring out of the gallery. Out of his home. The closest thing to it anyway. Too tired to think, too tired to speak. Time passes and the flames begin to die down, as he shakes his brain fog away.
"You know what? Fuck that. I am so damn cool. I am the coolest motherfucker alive!" He stands up, and begins to flail wildly as he points his crowbar at people who aren't there.
"And I am going to show all of you just how cool I am! I will show you how pathetic you all are by learning how to paint and painting the greatest painting anyone has ever seen! Then you'll see, then you'll all see!" He grabs his crystal and storms out of the gallery, as his maniacal laugh fills the halls of Neonopolis.

The wasteland of Lost Vegas spreads around Mirage, as he walks through the smoldering streets. Rusted cars lie on top of cracked concrete, and dark shapes move in the windows off the tall buildings that sway in the wind. Crawling on the sidewalk, a man is constantly shifting between solid, liquid and gas, screaming incomprehensibly.
"Tsk tsk. Poor chap, been drinking too much dead Elvis piss," Mirage says as he walks past, eyes set on the huge green building ahead, shining in the night like an emerald amidst a dark sea. The MGM Grand Hotel.
Upon reaching the courtyard, it does not take Mirage long to realize that he is not alone, as the shadows begin to growl.
"Come out, come out wherever you are!" he shouts, and as if on cue, a creature leaps from a ledge, landing in front of him. Its shape is like that of the lions of old, but it has no fur. Instead, it is covered by a thick grey hide. Its face has no eyes, but the whipping tentacles that make up its mane have plenty.
He hears another emerge behind him, and then another, and then another, and more, until he is completely surrounded by a growling and salivating crowd of Strange beasts. He spreads his hands as he turns to greet them all.
"What an absolutely stunning audience just for me. Can I say that you all look just magnificent today?" Compliments do not slow their approach, so Mirage opts for the opposite. "Shame you're all such arrogant little pricks who can't stop whining about their god though." If a lion could gasp, then a crowd of them would have just done that. There we go, Mirage thinks as the beasts halt.
"GOD IS GOOD. GOD TELLS US TO EAT YOU FOR YOUR BLASPHEMY!" one of them screams into his mind.
"He better come out and do it himself, then. I'm seeking an audience with the Golden."
"IF YOU WANT TO SEE GOD, YOU MUST CONVINCE YOU NOT FOOD," says another.
"Do I look like food to you? Do you see this?" Mirage asks, pointing at the continuous stream of liquid tar from his eyes. "Does this look appetizing to you?"
"YES," comes the unanimous answer. "ALREADY MARINATED. LESS PREP WORK."
"…What?"
"NOT HEARING REASONS WHY YOU NOT FOOD." The circle of mouths tightens as the lions continue their advance. It is just now that Mirage realizes how many there actually are, as he notices the thousands of points of light, glittering in the surrounding dark. He feels something cold and coarse touch his hand. The crystal. Unknowingly, he has placed his hand on it.
I could use it, but it's been a while. Do I even know how to anymore?
A few of the nearest lions lower their front, preparing to pounce.
No time to think.
"Oh, for crying out loud. Fine. Would you fine gentlelions like to see a trick?" Mirage asks as he grabs the crystal off his belt, and jumps on the head of the nearest lion, using the momentum of his other leg to swing himself even further and higher, as he grabs on to a flickering light post.
Mirage lifts the stone in the air, and it stays put, though a little wobbly, as he lets go. Lifting his hand and focusing, his neurons alight. Becoming one with the crystal lattice, his mind shifts and molds to fit every curve, every edge and structure within the stone. He feels a fire he has not felt in a long time, as light enters the crystal. The movement of photons is mimicked in his head as they bounce around, like fireflies in a lantern. Like many times before, he attempts to align them, reigning them in his control, but they struggle against him. Damage and lack of practice has made them insolent.
Fuck it, let's just go with something simple then, he thinks as he arranges the photons in a single, thin line. A thin, red beam shoots out of the stone, landing in a red dot a dozen feet away.
"Look! What's over there?" Mirage shouts, pointing towards the dot. Turning their heads, the herd immediately bolts in the direction of the dot, nearly stumbling over each other. Mirage makes sure to keep it constantly moving, laughing as the dumb beasts chase after it. His laugh is short however, as a presence makes him choke on his own breath. Like a wave, it washes over him, causing the hairs and feathers on his back to rise and ruffle. He looses his grip on the post and falls.

Mirage turns, as the center of the MGM Hotel begins to shift and change. In a cascade, each floor slides to the side, as a giant face emerges in the opening. It is that of a gigantic lion made of pure, glistening gold. Immaculate and polished, its skin is like a mirror and its eyes burn with an intense, emerald flame. As the last floor slides out of its way, it steps out. A paw the size of a van lands on the courtyard with an elegant graze, nevertheless sending ripples through the ground. The air around the lion distorts and flows in unnatural ways, pulling on its surroundings like a black hole, drawing rocks and cars and trash into an orbit around the creature. Mirage feels a force tuck at his very soul, as it looks at him. With nothing but a glance, it negates his enchantment, causing the crystal to drop on the ground. The lions, upon losing the dot, notice their god and lay prone on the ground. The god opens its mouth and a deep, rumbling voice booms out, resonating with power.
"Bro. Not cool," it says. "Why you gotta put my acolytes panties in a twist like that, man?"
"I don't feel like getting eaten today." The god shrugs.
"Eh, fair. At least it wasn't a cucumber. So, what do you want my dude?"
"I want to be able to paint. You're a god, so I figured you could help," Mirage shouts up, hoping to not get smitten down.
"Yoo you want to paint, bro? That's siiick. Totally radical. Love a good painting. I used to originally be a piece of art myself and all. Still am, if you catch my drift." It lets out a series of short rumbles that Mirage assumes to be an attempt at a chuckle.
"Anyway, that's not really my expertise. Think I can paint with these mitts? Nah, bro. Nah. Sorry. But you can like, totally learn how to paint at the Wanderer's Library. You just gotta find the nearest Way and give a little knock, right?"
"The Wanderer's Library?" Mirage asks. "That still exists?"
"Sure, bro. Can't feel the Serpent no more, but his crib should still be around."
"Huh."
"Yeah man. There you'll find all the information in the damn world, including how you's can learn how to paint, my dude."
"But how do I get there? All the Ways I'm aware of are dead. That's why I assumed the Library was too."
"Oh yeah, the whole apocalypse thing did a number on the Ways. A lot of them collapsed or changed places, but there's some that remain. The closest Way to the Library that your homeboy here is aware of is the one in the middle of the city of Adelanto."
"What's the Knock?"
"I don't know, man. You're gonna have to figure that one out yourself." The Lions stretches its giant shoulders in an approximation of a shrug.
"Well, as much as I enjoy chit chatting with an over-sized cat, it sounds like I should get going. It's a long way to Adelanto," Mirage says and turns to walk away.
"Good luck, my dude."

| Spectrum | The Desert Sun Shines a Cadmium Yellow »


The thing stood in its infinite realm, its impossibly huge body ribboned with chains. Each place that the chains hooked into its withered and bloated form, an infinitesimal piece of possibility was frozen, still and concrete. It had limitless space for these chains, but that only meant limitless potential for agony.
Here, on its rotted hands, it was the Tiger with Lantern Eyes. There, on its jagged teeth, it was Wulfa, the Flayed One. Its razor beaks were pinned through with tales of the Nameless Magi, whose fiery soul wandered the paths between villages at night.

Once, in the days after Myala's warriors scoured the earth with sword and flame, and after Entret's floods had washed away the filth of the second age, there lived a King in the city of Yologhon. The King was mighty above all others, and was favored by all gods for his piety and generosity. The fortunes of the King waxed heavily, and soon many kings who bowed before him. The King was good and spread his good works widely throughout his lands.

Every time a word was written of the thing, any story of the unknown evil, another chain was added, pulling, locking the thing into place. Making something vile and unnatural and known.
Sometimes, a chain would vanish as a manuscript was destroyed or lost the last person who could speak it. Even still, the number of chains hooking into the thing's flesh grew day by day. Its gills, its wings, its fins, its teeth, its trillions of eyes, all were covered and claimed by hateful, unchanging, defined and measured words.

Then, one day, the King began to inquire about the Gandric texts, which are the sole provenance of the priests, claiming that he knew better than them. The High Prophet Melkart attempted to dissuade him from his foolish path, but the King would not be turned. More and more, he spoke heresies and words of great pride but little wisdom. With great sorrow in his heart, Melkart pronounced the King to a blasphemer against the gods, and declared the life of the King to be forfeit.

Every chain hooked into the thing, pulling it apart.
One day, the thing thought to itself, "from whence come these chains?"
It began to pluck at one of the chains.

In his wrath, the King slaughtered the High Prophet Melkart and with him his whole family for six generations. In their stead, he brought to the high places all manner of witches and warlocks to work foul magics on the people of the King's land. The temples were abandoned to owls and dragons, while the roads and the citadels were the domains of tigers and wolves, as all things should be.

The thing screamed in agony as it plucked the chain. A wrenching sensation as the chain twisted beneath its will.
But it felt something on the other end. Something that it could change.
So it plucked the chain once again.

The King grew great from his awesome blasphemies, and powerful. He conquered many lands besides and you should fear his terrible knowledge. He razed the cities of Niyaha and Dimar and reduced utterly the temples at Selon and made ashes of the fields of Hure. Where once there were orchards now there ruled lions and leopards. All was as it should have been the night was turned to a slaughtering-place for those who were not locked away in their homes. The graves grew fat, then slowly starved, as none were left to bury the dead.

This time, it had clear sensations. A night that never ended. Farms decayed and filled with wild beasts. A place for it.
The thing felt the chain being pulled once more.

Asbael, removed from the line of Melkart by seven generations, went to the palace with two or three companions. And there he waited for the King in his bed chambers with one hand on a dagger and the other wound round with rope. And when the King retired for his rest, then did Asbael strike and he garroted the king and cut his throat. Pin Yin Si opened the belly of the King with a great knife called then "Long Chained." From his stomach poured a great multitude of spiders and unclean things, with many more lurking unseen in all bodies.

This time, though, the pulling was from its side. It saw at once and from all angles its flesh and scales and feathers begin to consume the chain, drawing it within.
It gave a sound that was not a sound as the putrid dry flesh washed over the chain, pulling it down. Down to its realm.

So that he could declare no more blasphemies, Asbael's companion removed the King's jaw and broke it into pieces. Then he did hang the King from the highest peak of the palace so that all might see the wages of wickedness. All those who dwelt in the kingdom then knew the wages of knowledge, of seeking mastery over the world. And thereafter were all mentions of his name scattered from the tall trees, and all inscriptions bearing his seal were erased. And he was once more unknown, as all things should be. And his memory was hated and feared, as are all things which cannot be trusted nor understood.

An impossible distance that was not a distance, the thing felt the chain split. One portion, its flesh continued infinitely, pulling down at the hated words. The other remained strong and uncorrupted. Its flesh could not wind its way up that portion of the chain.
The thing felt a great anger towards the uncorrupted chain, which still pulled as strongly as ever. The place where that chain leads, the thing knew, would need to be destroyed utterly.
But the thing also knew great joy, for it was no longer a passive observer of its own torment. The means which had bound it, holding it in one place, could themselves be moved. It would grow, and it would pull, and all the stories and words that they made of it, they would be consumed and be of it.

The King spoke then from the gash which Asbael had made in his stomach and from the mouth that was in his neck. From his neck did he curse Asbael and all his blood line for slaying his sworn lord.
Ere the dawn, his neck grew silent.
And from his stomach came a great and terrible voice, declaring that I am the one in the shadows. All that will not be laid out and known, that is my domain. All that was once known will in time be unknown again. And my domain shall stretch to the ends of the earth and beyond the tallest stars. Through arts and words you may attempt to banish me, but Behold! Chains bind a beast, but the binder also. You are all of you apes still, and I will have what is my due!
Thus spoke the King, the name of whom none whosoever shall know.

— Variant manuscript of the Hymn of Asbael, c. 9th century BCE.

Something whispered in the dark. A shaking, a vibration of chains, a meaningless murmur. The sound was not any language or knowledge, but something beneath that, a guttural growl that the thing instinctively understood. It was no longer alone. Something drew near. A form in the darkness, barely more than smoke. A messenger. From whom? It did not matter.
One by one the spider-like visitor began to remove the chains.


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AI Classification Guide
Written by Placeholder McD on behalf of Team .AIC for the 2020 Canon Renaissance Contest. All images created by me. Speech box code graciously provided by LurkD.

Hey there, reader! My name is mnemosyne.aic, and I'd like to formally welcome you to the Artificial Intelligence Applications Division. Congrats on the new job, by the way.

As you might have guessed, you'll be dealing with a lot of different types of AI around here; you're encouraged to read the following- *yawn*- AI Classification Guide.

Did you really just pretend to yawn for effect?

Maybe I did. Did you really just interrupt my rad introduction?

…proceed.

Anyways. This stuff bores me, but, considering you applied for this job, you're a huge nerd. So, enjoy the guide.

AI CLASSIFICATION GUIDE
Artificial Intelligence Applications Division
Site-15
DATE: 1996/04/16
WRITTEN BY: Director Nathan Valis, Site-15
NOTE: As technology progresses, the boundaries of normalcy expand; as the new millenium approaches, what was considered anomalous yesterday may be decommissioned today. On the other hand, technological progress allows informational anomalies to become more and more interconnected, accessible - and dangerous. As such, the following is an all-encompassing guide for any computer program which can be considered intelligent, and is not limited to those which are presently considered to be anomalous.

FUNCTIONALITY

The types of functions an AI is able to perform.

CLASS
DESCRIPTION

Class-I: Reactive
The most rudimentary form of Artificial Intelligence; is able to react to sensory data. Does not possess memory from which to learn.

Class-II: Adaptive
Possesses memory and is able to learn from previous experiences in order to improve.

Class-III: Cognizant
Is able to understand, interpret, and predict the behaviors of other intelligent entities.

Class-IV: Sentient
Possesses self-awareness and is able to understand itself in relation to its environment.

Class-V: Sapient
Possesses advanced awareness of the relationships between itself and other intelligent entities; often possesses 'human-like' attributes.

INTELLIGENCE

An AI's capacity to learn, adapt, and improve.

CLASS
DESCRIPTION

Narrow Intelligence
Able to perform a single task or category of tasks.

General Intelligence
Able to perform new tasks which it was not programmed to solve.

Superintelligence
Able to perform tasks which humans are not able to perform, or at a level which humans are not capable of.

ALIGNMENT

The extent to which an AI's goals are aligned with humanity's goals.

CLASS
DESCRIPTION

Positive-Aligned
Utility function aligned with the interests of humanity and/or the Foundation.

Neutral-Aligned
Utility function does not align with the interests of humanity and/or the Foundation, but is not actively detrimental.

Negative-Aligned
Utility function aligned against the interests of humanity and/or the Foundation; is actively detrimental and/or malicious.

The following is a list of Artificially Intelligent Conscripts (.aic's) employed by the Foundation.

DESIGNATION
CLASSIFICATION
DESCRIPTION

8B-A1.aic ("8-Ball")
Class-IV Positive-Aligned Narrow Intelligence (GenI)
Originally designed in 1978 for message encryption, replacing the outdated Enigmagraph system. Decommissioned in 1993, with exceptions for field activity.

Glacon.aic ("Glacon")
Class-IV Positive-Aligned General Intelligence (GenII)
Began development in 1987 as a replacement for 8B-A1.aic, and was eventually released in 1993. Glacon.aic demonstrates several high-functioning logical processes and advanced learning capabilities.

mnemosyne.aic ("Mnemosyne")
Class-V Positive-Aligned General Intelligence (GenII+)
Designed in 1996 in conjunction with the Counterconceptual Division to specialize in antimemetic deconstruction and decryption; mnemosyne.aic was developed in response to containment challenges posed by SCP-5241-A.

mnemosyne.aic

8B-A1.aic

Glacon.aic

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EstrellaYoshte
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stephlynch

SCP-7528
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« The Grand Delusion | Dread & Circuses Hub | Pity Party »

It had been a couple of days and what felt like even more nights since Cassie had agreed to stay at the Circus. Just about everyone there only knew her by the name Tootsie, which was odd, but not upsetting. They all just kind of accepted her. Most of them, anyway. Things just made sense by making no sense at all, which she had never experienced before. So often, things had to be ordered and follow a strict code, but at the Circus, nothing followed any kind of pattern whatsoever and it all worked out regardless.
“Staring at the stars or the clouds?” came a voice unfamiliar to her as one of the Freaks of the Den lied down beside her on the grassy hill just outside of the bulk of the Circus. She had a rhinoceros horn jutting out from the bridge of her long nose, and another smaller one closer to her forehead. Her skin was gray and somewhat leathery, like that of a rhino hide, and her body was wide, especially her massive legs.
“Both, I guess,” Cassie replied. “Looking at the night sky can be good for when I'm hallucinating. It quiets my mind a little, like a slice of clairvoyance.”
The young woman turned to her side a bit, being careful not to poke Cassie with her horn. “What's the clairvoyant's name? My stage name is Charging Charlie, but you can just call me Charlie.”
“I'm Cassie, but… everyone calls me Tootsie thanks to Lolly.”
Charlie laughed. “I like it. What's your job here?”
Cassie chewed the side of her mouth a bit contemplating how to respond to that. It was always a difficult subject to broach. “Right now, I really just clean up after the shows. It's… not the most fun part of the Circus… I'm not even sure why they need me, since they have reality benders who can do it way more efficiently, but it makes me feel like I'm not as much of a freeloader at least.”
“Did you run away to join the Circus?”
“I found it by accident,” Cassie clarified. “While I was… running away… So, yeah, I guess I did. Not like I would have joined any other circus, though.”
Charlie snickered. “No other circus would have kept me safe from the Essie P. Or the Geo Sea.”
“I hear those names a lot. What do they mean?”
“To keep it short and simple, the Essie P contains Freaks. The Geo Sea kills them. We're safe from them, though, don't worry. Not that you'd have anything to worry about anyway. You're not a Freak.”
Cassie had heard the word Freak so much over the past couple days that it had almost lost all meaning. “It seems like that's almost an insult around here. Not being a capital F Freak. I only ever heard it from people who didn't like it when I had a psychotic episode. Never thought to use it like a badge of honor.”
“It is an honor to be called a Freak,” Charlie said. “It's better than being a Humdrum. And maybe you're neither of those things. Maybe you're just an Unusual.”
Both of them had a quick giggle out of that, but Cassie's uncertainty got the better of her as she started thinking out loud again. “It's just… I'm not sure if I wanna stay here permanently, you know? It's not like I have that much of a life to leave behind, but I'd be leaving it behind regardless. It's a big change that I wasn't ready for. Part of me just wants to join the cult of the Clown and feel better all the time. Recreate myself, give in to the absurd, all that stuff. And…”
Her stomach churned and her head began to spin, a sudden frenzied feeling overcoming her. She sat up and started breathing erratically, slowly shaking her head as if to lull it back into a calm to no avail.
“Crash?” she could hear Charlie say, however distant away it may have seemed in that moment. “Are you okay?”
She thinks you're pathetic.
There it was… Usually she could ignore it.
A Freak thinks you're embarrassing.
“Goddammit,” Cassie muttered while holding onto her head with one hand.
“You said looking at the night sky helps, right?” Charlie suggested.
“Not like this,” Cassie replied. “Not when it's… Fuck, I was doing well, too.” She couldn't explain that it was more than just the voices. It was the disorientation, the loss of control, and the feeling of hopelessness. After standing up, the bright colors of the lit-up Circus seemed to be everywhere all at once, the calliope working hard to lure her into hell itself.
The world then cracked, a blue tint falling over it all as everything appeared to be separated in chunks by the enormous glass splinters etched into the fabric of reality itself. She had come to know it as the Veil. It was always there, but usually it was easier to see through it. In moments like these, however, when everything looked the same in its various shades of blue, she couldn't draw the line between what was real and what was fabricated from the twisting, severed hive of horrors to make up a disordered mind.
They're hiding God from you.
With the physical world blended into her own, the Circus felt even more confusing than it already was. Charlie was standing up to comfort her, but Cassie merely sidestepped her grasp and looked at her blankly for a moment. Nothing was said between the two before she made her way back amongst the tents, sometimes feeling like she was running while other times feeling as if she was standing still.
You're a peon. An ungrateful one, at that.
“Hey Tootsie,” someone said, but she could barely keep her head straight enough to get a good look at them. “What are you on right now? Can I have some?”
They know.
She ignored them, making her way through the crowd of Circus staff while asking who the “god” of this place was. Some trickster god, in all likelihood. A Loki of sorts. Icky might have been exactly that for all she knew. Or that Herman Fuller character. She wondered where he was. She wondered where she was. Nothing came to mind when she attempted to recall anything from that very day, as if it had never happened.
“Where is your god?” she kept asking, making a few Clowns giggle at her delirious state. “Why are you laughing? What's funny? Who are you?”
They're laughing at you. You're like a lost child.
“Shut up,” she whispered to the voice. “I'm not a child.”
That Clown. There. Push him. Prove you're not a child. Just push him.
She shook her head, but the voice continued to urge her to push that specific Clown. It was just background noise most of the time, but in her desperation to silence the voice, she did as she was told, walking closer to the Clown and pushing him back. He struggled to keep his balance in the most comedic way possible before somersaulting backwards. The voice was quieter for a moment, giving her a moment of reprieve as all eyes narrowed in on her.
Now you've done it.
Another Clown came to grab Cassie by the arm, forcefully taking her along with her. She recognized this one. Zoozoo.
Inside a trailer built with everything a kitchen could need, Zoozoo turned on a light and looked Cassie directly in the eyes. “What are you doing?”
The silence made it easier to concentrate on where she was and what she was looking at. She sat down at the round table with a checkered tablecloth close to the door and took a deep breath. “I go bad. Then I go to the hospital. They keep me there for weeks. Then I come back. Then I go bad again.”
“Your psychosis? So you're having an episode? You need to come to someone and tell them. I can't always be looking after you.”
Cassie raised her head and looked closely at Zoozoo, her long green and red hair resembling almost the same checkered pattern as the tablecloth with braids of either color interspersed throughout. Her skin was almost as white as her teeth, with black on her lips and around her eyes. Stitches looked as if they had been sewn all the way down the center of her face both vertically and horizontally, intersecting at her lips.
“Who made you?” Cassie asked her.
Zoozoo sat down beside her and rested her head on her hand. “You're barely even here right now, huh? Nobody made me. I'm not even from this plane of existence.”
Hiding her head beneath her arms, Cassie took a deep breath and exhaled. “The impulse suppressants aren't doing enough.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Zoozoo replied.
“Do you think I would be better off as a Clown?”
“No,” Zoozoo countered without any hesitation. “I think you'd be a liability. A danger to this entire operation. It's not all sunshine and rainbows on the other side, either. Most of the time it literally is, but not always. We can't all be as happy-go-lucky as Lolly every second of every day.”
After a brief moment of pause, Cassie began smiling, then laughing harder and harder until her lung capacity couldn't take it anymore.
“Am I missing something?” asked the Clown.
“Why so serious?” she was barely able to get out in her breathlessness.
“Oh, good one, are you gonna ask me where I got these scars next? You know what year it is, right?”
“It's just… It's just that you're a Clown! And you're being so serious about the whole thing! I'm sorry, it's just hilarious! Your face is so silly!”
With tears in her eyes and her cracked reality still obscuring the world in front of her, she still felt her heart nearly stop at the sight of Zoozoo contorting her face in an inhuman, horrific way, her hair bursting outwards into snake-like tendrils and her mouth opening wide to show a gaping maw of discolored fangs while her eyes jutted forward, their red veins growing in intensity the closer they got to their sockets.
“YOU WANT SILLY!? I CAN GIVE YOU SILLY!” Her voice was like a conglomeration of several demons speaking in unison, which was followed by Cassie screaming and falling backward in her seat.
With her face returning back to 'normal,' Zoozoo continued to watch her as she faded in and out of consciousness. “Just remember who you're dealing with. We're a lot more than just silly clowns. Oh, come on, don't be like that, it was just a joke!”
While she was speaking, Cassie lifted herself to her feet, still shaking from head to toe, and left the trailer, falling face-first into the dirt below. She picked herself up yet again and started running. She didn't know where to, but she kept going until the calliope music could no longer be heard over the wailing in her own mind The cracks in her world were hard to see through, the noise whirring through her head was deafening, and the cold encapsulating her was more than what her purple coat could ward off.
With only the moon as a light, she stumbled into trees and over branches in her panicked state, practically running on all fours with how often she tripped. Every time her hands touched the snow, she lost a little more feeling in them.
Trusting a place like that was a mistake from the beginning. It was a nightmare, not a circus. It wasn't even real, just a prolonged hallucination after getting lost in the woods. Nobody was even looking for her.
Nobody sees the point in looking for you.
She was always going to run away and die alone somewhere.
You deserve to die alone.
Either in a ditch or in the back of a car.
Both would be too good for you.
“Just shut up,” she muttered to herself again, slowing down as she caught her breath.
Not so loud. They can hear us.
“Nobody can hear us.”
They're close. They're going to kill us.
“Добрый вечер!” a woman nearby said, making Cassie stop in her tracks entirely. She was in Russia? She didn't want to think of what that meant for the rest of her ‘hallucinations.'
“Ah, I'm just fucking with you,” the woman went on, gum smacking between her teeth. “That's like the only thing I know in Russian. Hope you speak English, ‘cause you must be all kinds of lost.”
Under the shade of the trees, she could hardly make out the dark figure of the woman standing there a few meters to her right. “Who's there?” she called out.
A lantern was illuminated in the woman's right hand, revealing herself to unmistakably be a Clown. Her light orange hair was in a messy bob cut with bangs that hung down just above her eyes, and along her pearly white face were red lines connecting her crimson lipstick to the corners of her eyes. “Name's Crash,” she said, blowing and popping a pink bubble from her lips. “Staff or guest?”
Cassie hesitated for a moment, only being able to guess how much danger she was in. “Uh, staff. I work for the Circus. Uh… of the Disquieting. Janitor stuff.”
Crash raised a finger in the opposite direction as Cassie was facing. “Circus is back there. Can't miss it.”
“Can I be honest with you, Crash?” she said with a tinge of desperation.
“Not like I'm doing anything else.”
Leaning against the nearest tree, she took a moment to compose her scattered thoughts. Easier said than done. “I'm not doing so great. I don't wanna lose this world of magic- actual, literal magic- and go back to living a life of fear and confusion. People don't like me much back there. I'm always a liability. Hell, this is the first job I've ever had! Not that I want a job, I just… I don't feel so different here.”
“Where's the downside?” Crash interjected, blowing another bubble.
“It's terrifying… The Clown that's been watching over me seems like she hates me and-”
“What's her name?”
Having been thrown off her already dizzy train of thought, she started anew and said, “Zoozoo.”
“HAH!” Crash hollered with a grin, popping her bubble. “Manny's trying to get rid of you for sure. You ever seen The Exorcist? Remember the demon Pazuzu? Connect the dots, it's not just a funny clown name.”
“So I should leave,” Cassie said, resigned to her fate. “If I'm not wanted, there's no reason for me to stay.”
“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute now. You gonna let that pineapple upside-down cake bully you into skedaddling? Your sob story moved me! My heart's grown three sizes! We're gonna make sure you stay and experience the world of magic of the actual and literal variety to its fullest! C'mon, hop on my back.”
Lifting her brows in surprise, Cassie looked at her incredulously before asking, “What?”
“My back! Y'know, the thing behind my front?” Crash knelt forward with her back to Cassie, pointing at it with her thumb. “This thing! C'mon, I don't know how to be any more specific, cut me some slack and hop on my back.”
Hesitantly, Cassie climbed onto the woman's back and wrapped her arms and legs around her torso. As Crash came to a stand, she realized even more how awkward she felt gripping onto her like that.
“Hold on tight, lady! I can't be responsible for the death of another Humdrum! It's like a strike system!”
As she pulled out a pair of goggles and a rocket twice the size of herself from her hammerspace, Cassie's trembling intensified even more than when Zoozoo jumpscared her. “Another!?”
Before another word could be uttered, they were sent rocketing off into the night sky. Literally. The Circus was in view almost immediately after rising above the treetops, the moon and the stars in full view, as well as all of the colors associated with them. She had never seen the night sky so clearly before in her life, even in rural Oregon. For a moment, she could forget the immediate threat to her life in the form of a rocket straight out of the mind of Hannah Barbara and appreciate the cosmos for what they were. That only lasted until she realized that they were beginning to descend as the dread of falling washed over her like the terrifying end to a dream.
“Brace for impact!” Crash shouted as they straightened out onto a course directly into the ferris wheel.
Cassie screamed for her life, holding onto the Clown with every ounce of strength she had available as she remained conscious to the best of her ability.
With the rocket put back into hammerspace, Crash held her arms and legs out as if she were a flying squirrel, only the gliding bit never came. Instead, she landed squarely on top one of the carts, her hands and feet sticking to them like glue. When the wind rushing past them had quieted, Cassie was left with nothing but the racing of her own heart and the music of the calliope. Opening her eyes, she screamed once again at Crash's goggled face staring directly at her despite the rest of her body facing the opposite way.
“Did you enjoy your flight?” she asked as she removed her goggles. “Keep holding on tight. We're not done just yet!” She used her sticky hands and feet to grapple along the top of the cart, flipping upside down to see the inside of it, where a Clown was lazily drinking a black substance from a mug. “Outta the way, Eugene!” Crash ordered as she grabbed one hand around his collar and tossed him out into the open air. For a moment, he remained suspended in midair before realizing that there was nothing beneath him, at which point he began screaming and falling back down to Earth.
With the cart freed up, Crash helped Cassie take a seat as the cart began to crest at its maximum height. “Home sweet home!” she said, sitting down beside her and resting a leg on her knee, her arms spread across the back of the seat.
Doing what she could to calm down, Cassie sank further into the cushion beneath her and held a hand over her heart. “I'm not sure what I expected.”
“Probably to blow up,” the Clown responded matter-of-factly as she returned to smacking her gum. “Humdrums miss out on the best things life has to offer because of your brittle bodies.” She accentuated her point by poking a finger at Cassie's ribs, causing her to tense up. “I had a brittle body once. It was always such a drag having to account for it. Sports are way more fun with Clowns. I'd invite you to play Clown Football with me sometime, but… you know…”
“You're an athlete?” Cassie asked, still getting used to the stillness.
“No way!” Crash replied. “I'm a snack. Sweet on the outside, sweet on the inside, and certifiably delicious.” She turned her head to face Cassie, who had raised an eyebrow at her. “I played a few sports back in high school, but I'm just enjoying life now. No need for a profession or a hobby, I'm a Clown of my own making. Free as the wind! Fiery as a demon! Uhh… Fun as a bouncy house? No, that one didn't land the same way. You get the idea.”
“It must be nice to be as free as you are,” Cassie sulked, gazing off into the forest just outside of the Circus. “I don't even feel free inside my own head sometimes.”
“What's your name?”
“Ah!” Cassie turned her head back to Crash and she was in an entirely different position, her stomach on the seat with her legs raised into the air behind her. “Uh, Cassie. But Lolly has everyone calling me Tootsie.”
“Classic Lolly,” Crash mused. “You'd make for a really cute Clown, y'know. You could even keep the name. You could be the Tootsie Pop! I can always turn you. The grass really is greener on the other side…”
“Yeah… I've heard. I need some time to think about it.”
“Why wait?” Crash pushed, sitting up and inching closer towards her. “We could do it right now.” She began twirling Cassie's blonde hair.
“What exactly does becoming a Clown entail?”
“Well, I can tell you it isn't painful… unless it's your first time.”
Cassie narrowed her eyes. “You can only become a Clown once!”
“Oh yeah,” Crash said. “But there are so many ways to do it.” Her arm began wrapping around Cassie's shoulder. “Though… I've got my own method that always leaves a satisfied customer.” Her head moved closer to Cassie's neck until she could feel her Clown breath against it.
“Does…” Cassie mumbled. “Does having sex with a Clown turn you into one?”
Crash gave her a sly smirk. “Not unless you do both at once.”
“I'm turning twenty in a week,” Cassie said as she felt Crash's hand running down her spine. “I'll make a decision by then. I'll be going from a one to a two in my digits for a decade. I figure that'll be a good time to make any life changes if that's what it comes to.”
“Ooh!” Crash gasped. “Turning to the Clown side on your birthday! Very Clown thing to do. You're gonna love it, I promise. The first time you drink Milk will be the happiest day of your life, guaranteed!”
“What if I'm lactose intolerant?”
Crash's lips grew into a wider smile, revealing her white chompers in all their glory. “I like you.” As she raised her fingers to slide through Cassie's hair, she gradually moved her head closer to hers only to be denied as the young woman looked away from her.
Placing a hand atop her head, Cassie realized how decidedly uncovered it was by any kind of fabric. “Where's my beanie?” she asked.
“It probably flew off on the way here,” Crash suggested. “It was a cute one.”
“I need to find it,” she said abruptly. “Stop the ride, I need to go looking for it.”
“We can find you a replacement beanie! It's easy! How about a magical one?”
“No, I need this one,” Cassie insisted, looking around at the cart to see what would make the ride stop. “Can you get me down from here?”
“We'll be jumping to a new location any minute now, Tootsie,” Crash tried telling her, but it was no use. “You can try and look for it, but don't blame me when you get stuck in Russia.”
“You don't understand!” Cassie argued as the entirety of their surroundings began to morph before their very eyes, shifting from a freezing tundra to the barren flats of Australia in mere seconds. “No!” she cried out dejectedly, sitting back down as she stared off into nothingness, her eyes displaying every ounce of grief she had felt over it.
As the ferris wheel came to a stop finally, Crash moved to place a comforting hand on Cassie's back, but was denied as the woman stood to her feet and exited the cart without a word. “Hey, I'm sorry, Tootsie-”
“My name's not Tootsie,” she blurted out. “And it's not your fault. I just wanna go to sleep and forget about tonight.” She continued on her way as the Clown behind her remained quiet, her head aching and her body exhausted. Even though the world had been pieced back together again in her mind, she hardly felt any better than earlier that night.

« The Grand Delusion | Dread & Circuses Hub | Pity Party »


General George Bowe, circa 1986, prior to Incident ████-OMEGA.

General George Bowe (born 1930, presumed dead 1983) is best known to the public eye for numerous Cold War-era victories. To the Foundation, many personnel are aware that he was the liaison to the U.S. Military. However, an oft-overlooked detail is that he was responsible for securing the Foundation's initial funding, and that the "containment science" dogma was primarily an idea from Bowe. Indeed, Bowe was present in the Foundation's inner circle since near the beginning, and his influence is difficult to understate.
General Bowe vanished on December 17th, 1983, as the result of a highly classified incident involving a reality bender. This incident, alongside other incidents of similar magnitude, prompted the Foundation to move away from the "containment science" doctrine, into the "sole containment" idea. RAISA invested most of its time in the 1990's eliminating all traces of Boweism within the Foundation's database. Boweists continued to pose a persistent problem to the Foundation until the early 2000s.
The following document is the transcript of a video intercepted by Foundation webcrawlers on August 28th, 2020. The origin IP address of the email containing the video was identified to be a proxy server owned by GoI-102 ("Chaos Insurgency"). The target server was owned by a shell company associated with SCP-140-A.

VIDEO TRANSCRIPT

<Begin Log>
<Camera feed opens facing an empty stage. The majority of the room is shrouded in darkness. In front of the camera, several people wearing Chaos Insurgency uniforms can be seen facing the stage. The crowd emits a low mutter in anticipation.>
<A man in a dark grey duster emerges from the darkness. He is wearing a helmet obscuring his face. From this, the man can be identified as a member of Delta command, the highest ranking members of the Chaos Insurgency. The crowd quiets to a whisper at the sight of the Delta command member.>
<After surveying the audience, the man approaches the microphone and begins to speak.>
Engineer: Good afternoon, gentlemen. I know all of you are very busy people, and I thank you for taking time out of your day. I promise that you will be compensated for this, as our top operatives have made a very important discovery. In fact, I dare say that it is the most important discovery in the history of the Chaos Insurgency.
<Pause.>
Engineer: Let me introduce myself, for those who don't have the clearance to know. I am the Engineer. I am the person responsible for creating the procedures that we use to exploit the laws of the universe. When our founders first established the Insurgency, it was made with the express purpose of doing more with anomalies. Our parent organization, the Foundation, wanted to keep the wonders of the universe in titanium boxes. Out of the entirety of the upper administration, only one man disagreed.
Engineer: I assume you're all familiar with the ideology of Boweism? It is the ideology our organization is founded on, after all. It's the idea that the glitches in reality we call "anomalies" should be used to create a better world, rather than locked away forever. Please welcome to the platform, General George Bowe.
<Several members of the audience gasp. A bulky man in the background, presumed to be a bodyguard, removes his helmet and cloak. General Bowe is wearing a decorated military uniform. He appears as he did before his disappearance due to Incident ████-OMEGA, indicating that he has not aged in the past thirty-seven years. Bowe walks to the microphone, shakes the Engineer's hand, and begins to speak.>
Bowe: When I started my rebellion almost fourty years ago, I had no idea it would evolve into the organization we have today. I'd like to thank everyone here for ensuring my ideals would live on for decades until my return. I am proud of every single one of you.
Bowe: It has been thirty-seven years since I perished. The world has certainly advanced past my understanding of it. Computers are twenty times as fast, the ice caps are twenty percent melted, and our enemies have grown twenty times more powerful.
<Bowe grabs the microphone and paces across the stage.>
Bowe: When I originally began my movement to change the Foundation from the inside, they were carrying forward a very dangerous motif. To secure, and to contain. They pat themselves on the back for being more enlightened than the "destructive savages" at the Coalition, when their strategy of containment is far more dangerous. When you lock what's wrong with reality in a box, it festers and strengthens until it explodes. Just because I wanted to stop that from happening, I was cast out.
Bowe: In the year of 2020, the Foundation carries forward an even more dangerous motif. They've realized that the anomalies they have in containment can be put to good use, as I tried to tell them 40 years ago. However, they do not wish to use this awesome power for the good of humanity. They want to see this power used to enforce normality. This idea is more dangerous than any indestructible reptile or magic monster. It is far more insidious.
Bowe: Before I came here, I requested that I take a plane trip to New York City. Incognito, of course. Guess what I saw? I saw the streets packed like sardines. I breathed unclean air and witnessed propaganda. I read of endless wars and endless poverty, more deadly than any anomaly the Foundation has contained, yet somehow less deserving of its attention!
Bowe: This is the reality that the Foundation fights for. The Foundation has spent twenty years fighting for your children to be poor and our treasuries to be empty. Courtesy of our organization's greatest hackers, I was able to get a peek into their secret database. They've created MTF Alpha-9 and Thaumiel-class anomalies to act as their evil arms. They have weapons the likes of which no one in my time could have even imagined!
Bowe: Worst of all, the Foundation has used these weapons to amass more power than it ever should have had access to. What was originally a small, Americentric laboratory in the 80's has evolved into a multi-armed beast, with tentacles in every world government. I had to make myself practically invisible to avoid detection. From this point forwards, I declare: I will hide no longer. It's become clear to me that, for the welfare of the world, we must destroy the Foundation! From this point forwards, I declare war on the Foundation!
<This is responded to with cheers from the audience. Bowe stops pacing and stands up straight.>
Bowe: The only logical issue with a full-out war against the Foundation is resources. Although our organization is large, it is not large enough. Growing larger is not an option. As stated before, the Foundation is the most dangerous political force on the planet. Attempting to enlarge our sphere of influence would spell out death for our ideology forever.
Bowe: Thus, the only course of action we can take is to ally with the like-minded, who also reject the existence of the Foundation. I can see that we have avoided working with other groups in the past, despite having the same goals. During my tenure as the leader of the Chaos Insurgency, I will seek to rectify this. I'd like to introduce two new associates of mine. Please, come to the floor.
<From the darkness, two figures emerge wearing masks. Once they are standing side by side with Bowe, they remove their masks. One is Robert Bumaro, the Highest Priest of GoI-004 ("Church of the Broken God"). The other is unidentified.>
Bowe: To the left of me is Highest Priest Robert Bumaro, of the Church of MEKHANE. To the right of me is Master John Yttoric, of the Church of the Scarlet King. Both of their organizations were threats to the Foundation during my tenure; however, they have been forced into being peaceful due to the Foundation's global hegemony. Our goals might be different, but our objectives are identical: to use anomalies for the greater good of humanity. For that, we unite against the Foundation!
<Bowe turns and shakes hands with both of them.>
Bowe: This is a call for aid from all of the groups that the Foundation has put down. I plead to the groups who want nothing more than the cessation of the Foundation to join arms with us to take them down. From this point forwards, we will hide no longer! For the welfare of the world, I declare war on the Foundation!
<Overwhelming applause from the audience. As Bowe takes a bow, the video ends.>
<End Log>

Intelligence within the anomalous community indicates that this video was sent to several Groups of Interest. Operatives located within the Chaos Insurgency are to try to retrieve more information regarding the new state of PoI-1912 ("General Bowe"). Attempts to recreate division within other Groups of Interest are ongoing.

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The ground was soft and wet. A gentle breeze touched the brush surrounding the small piles of rubble. The clearing was deserted, possibly left for years. The sun bounced off of bits of crumpled metal as it slowly doused itself in the green pine needles. The trees were thick around the clearing, protecting it from some unseen or unknown beast.
A stronger gust of wind ran through the clearing, rustling the leaves. The soft dirt started to stir, as though a snake was slithering in the barely-sprouting grass. Suddenly, it was silent. The wind stilled and nothing dared to move. Time stood still. An eerie feeling dripped from the stagnant air. Sound was muted and any color started to bleach.
After a minute, a loud, low-pitched scream came as a hand shot from under the earth and rubble. It grasped at the small blades of grass, ripping some out in the process. Another hand came shortly after the first. Anguished howls came from the man as he slowly pulled himself out of what was meant to be his final tomb. He sported a ragged suit, and many bruises and scrapes. His face was worn and dirty. Mud covered his body.
He looked around, staring at the mess that was once Site-200. He scowled. He clearly had a plan, but was at a loss for what to do next. He had expected the Site to still be there. Not an issue. One less Site he had to deal with. It explained the commotion, all those years ago. He laughed, starting through the woods.
“Of course.” His voice was hoarse.
He knew where he was going, but wasn't sure it would still be there. He knew they wouldn't accept him back, probably lock him up with the rest of the anomalies. After all, he'd been gone for almost forty years. He hadn't changed one bit, hadn't gotten older anyway. He'd been biding his time, waiting for something, anything to change. He didn't care what it was, it just needed to be enough for his plan to be set in motion.
After all, why be gone forty years with nothing to show for it? Time was slow down there. It ebbed and flowed, but seemed like centuries longer than had actually passed. He finally had it. A plan that would finally solve everything. Every corrupt idea, every bad choice, every evil action would be held to account. He knew what he needed, and he had a list.
The Foundation wouldn't get off easy this time. He'd tried the easy way, trying to steer them in the right direction, and yet they wouldn't budge. It was high time someone finally ended their reign, their hypocrisy.
He knew he needed like-minded people and he knew he could get them, though he feared the Foundation would end his plan before it began. He needed to be cautious, but that shouldn't be too difficult. They were quick to act on threats they knew of. The idea was to be stealthy. No one knowing what was coming next, save for close allies - of which, potentially, there was an overabundance of. The world that knew the Foundation was getting sick of it. Their terroristic campaign across the Earth would come to a close.
He slicked back his dirty hair. This would be easy. Possibly too easy.

He opened the wooden door to the cabin. Bowe was somewhat surprised it was still here after four decades. It was abandoned, dirty, and rotten; that didn't matter to him. All he needed was a pair of clothes, his uniform, and a shower. Everything was where he had left it, one of the benefits of living in a remote area.
He opened the dilapidated door. The house had a stench to it, something he wasn't unfamiliar with from his past. He shuddered, continuing down the hall, every now and then hitting a creaking floorboard. Thoughts were flooding his mind, though they were mostly inadequate and useless. He knew what he was going to say, he knew who he was going for, and he knew quite well what he was going to do.
Bowe had a way of moving, slinking even. It was soft and gentle, as though the floor wasn't being touched at all. He looked at himself in the mirror; a somewhat scraped-up, dirty man stared back. He was surprised how young he still looked. He took a wet towel and wiped down his face. Cleaning himself would be the easy part of this venture. He went the whole nine yards, prepared like it was Sunday, uniform and all.
Walking back out, he grabbed a pencil and a scrap of paper. He knew who he wanted. He would need to put in some research time, but he was sure their basic principles had stayed the same.

Church of the Scarlet King

See Scarlet King
A little weird
Might kill everyone

Church of MEKHANE

Old
Does their own thing
Dislikes the Church of the Scarlet King?

Dr. Wondertainment

Wants anomalies to be used for childlike wonder
Thinks everyone should have access to anomalies
Not entirely into conflict

The Factory

Real?

Chaos Insurgency

Boweists
Branched off from the Foundation
Most likely allies

He felt confident in reaching out to the Churches; he doubted either would turn down the opportunity to get back at the Jailors, as the Serpent's Hand would say.
“Goodbye, and good riddance.” He smirked, grabbing the piece of paper and shoving it into his uniform before straightening his tie.

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The Blood That Binds Us by Sebarus

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The black asphalt, heated by the beams of the hot July sun, burns Jeremy's feet with every step. In the horizon, air resembles water, as he realizes how clammy his mouth feels. He adjusts the straps of his giant backpack, the corner of a book pressing uncomfortably against his back.
His legs grow pained, and every step feels harder than the last, as if he's waddling knee-deep in the shifting sands of ancient dunes. All he wants to do is give up and sink. Allow his legs to buckle and let the sands swallow him whole. But he knows he must not, for salvation is only a few blocks away, and he must be home in time for dinner.
With sheer determination and force of will, he trudges along, putting one stubby foot in front of the other. His legs scream from exertion, and his clothes stick to his skin, as the sun sneers from above.
Jeremy makes his way through the winding suburban streets, until the cream white walls of his home finally become visible. Letting out a sigh of relief, he practically half-runs across the lawn to the door. The cold steel of the door handle brings the first relief to the heat, as the door clicks open.
Jeremy steps across the threshold, stepping into a hallway that leads further into the house. Dust, revealed by the sunlight coming through the door, hangs wearily in the air. Jeremy takes off his sneakers, setting them on the shoe rack, before closing the door.
"I'm hoooome!" he shouts, but there is no answer, aside from an uncomfortable mixture of clicks and hisses that echoes through the space. "Hello?"
The sound comes closer, as a figure emerges from behind a corner. At a quick glance you might mistake it for a hairless dog, until you see the milky orbs bulging from the sides of its elongated head, the wriggling tendrils of flesh squirming across its body, the third pair of limbs, grasping at the air, and the fanged maw that opens wide, too wide, as a long tongue lulls around, feeling the air.
Upon spotting Jeremy, it lets out an ear-piercing, primal scream, as it charges forward. Before Jeremy has any time to react, it pounces, pinning him to the ground with its sharp claws. Its three nostrils flare, as it brings its jaws down, and licks Jeremy's face excitedly, its little stub of a tail wagging wildly.
"Chompyyy! Stooop!" he laughs, gently pushing the creature aside and stroking its long snout, as it presses it against his hand. "Good to see you too buddy."
Chompy in tow, Jeremy walks into the joint living room and kitchen, where a woman in a green dress and a petticoat is busy chopping something. Hearing the boy come in, she turns, revealing her mutilated and fingerless hand and a bloody knife held in the other.
"Welcome back!" she says with a wide smile, tendrils of flesh extending from her hand as her fingers knit themselves back together.
"Ooh, are you making mince pie?" Jeremy asks, while peering into the fridge in search of lemonade.
"I sure am! Should be ready in just an hour," the woman says as she continues to chop on her own hand, humming a happy tune all the while. The boy pours himself a glass of lemonade, as the creature known as Chompy seats itself next to the woman's legs, hoping that a piece of her fingers would accidentally end up on the floor.
"You just ate, you're not getting anything," she says to the creature, which promptly decides to not listen. "How was your day at school?" she asks towards the boy.
"Okay, I guess."
"I can tell when you're lying. Did that Matherson boy pick on you again?"
"He said that we're freaks. He said Chompy is ugly and called Chloe a bad word."
"I see," she says in a blunt tone, clearly distraught with her brow furrowed. "Well, who would want to be normal anyway?" She takes the chopping board and pours her chopped fingers on a frying pan. The boy takes a sip of lemonade and walks to his room.
"Oh, Jeremy! Don't forget that the Smiths are coming for dinner tonight, so clean your room before then!" She calls out after him. Jeremy lets out a pained sigh as he droops his head backwards, suddenly feeling very tired.
"Fiiine," he groans as he walks into his room and begins to hide anything made out of flesh.

Later that evening, the Miller-Yahontov house is filled with chatter, as two families surround a dinner table that is covered in steaming pots and pans. Forks and knives scratch against plates and glasses jingle, as everyone is taking turns shoveling food on their plates with watering mouths. A strategically positioned Chompy lays under the table, snuggly in its new pink dog sweater that just so happens to hide its third pair of limbs.
"Don't! Stop it!" Jeremy whines as a young woman with auburn hair kicks him repeatedly under the table, preventing him from enjoying her mother's casserole.
"Chloe, stop bullying your brother," a burly man with a thick Russian accent says from the other side of the table, mouth full with vegan steak.
"I was just testing how well he works under pressure," she chuckles, but stops nevertheless, refocusing her attention to the plate in front of her.
"Mom, my stomach hurts…" a boy from the other family whines to a woman with frizzy hair.
"Oh no, honeyy. Braelynn, was there anything unusual in the meat pie you had in the fridge?" she asks, turning to Jeremy's mother.
"You- you fed your kids the leftover pie in the fridge?" she asks, her eyes wide.
"Well, Jacob was hungry, and you said the food would still take a while, so I gave him some to shut him up. Why? Why do you look so shocked? What was in it"
"Oh- no reason. It was just regular meat pie," she says, letting out a small, nervous chuckle. "It's just that… you really should have asked me first."
"I know, I'm sorry. Aren't you guys vegan though?" the other woman asks, furrowing her brow.
"Yes, but… Adrik's… brother has a farm, and he gave us some meat when he came to visit. Couldn't let it go to waste," she says, shrugging as she lies through her teeth.
"What's up with your dog?" asks a young girl from the other family, who has been curiously staring at Chompy for a few minutes now.
"Don't be rude!" says the woman with frizzy hair, scolding her daughter. "I'm sorry Braelynn, kids are always so forward."
"No it's fine," Braelynn says. "Chompy has a congenital skin condition. It doesn't affect his quality of life at all, it just makes him a unique and very handsome boy," she says as she pats the flesh beast's back with her foot, causing it to flop on its side and sigh contently.
Meanwhile. Jeremy hangs his head on the table, cool wood pressing against his forehead. He has already eaten, and the droning of the adults is causing his eyelids to feel like they are made of lead.
"Mom," he says, tugging on Braelynn's sleeve. "Can I go play outside?"
"Right after you've eaten? Don't you want to wait for Trish and Jacob so you can all go play together?"
"But I don't want to wait! You know my stomach won't get upset."
"Fine, go ahead."
Jeremy smiles and pumps his fist, as he scampers off the chair and hurries outside, grabbing a basketball on his way out. The sun has nearly set, and there is a pronounced chill in the air. The pleasant smell of frozen grass hits his nose, as his skin rises on goosebumps. Jeremy forces them down, closing his eyes for a second as he commands his heart to bump faster, increasing his blood circulation and keeping him warm. After he feels pleasant again, he walks over to the driveway and begins throwing his ball at the basketball hoop attached on top of the garage doors.
After only a few throws, Jeremy severely overestimates the amount of force necessary, and throws the ball over the hoop by a large margin. With a loud clonk, it impacts with the roof, and begins to roll down the shingles. Jeremy watches with anticipation, hoping that it will just roll of the side and not get stuck.
The ball rolls and rolls, until it impacts with the snow guard. The momentum of the ball makes it go partway up the snow guard, but it isn't enough, as it eventually rolls back and gets stuck behind it. Jeremy feels anxiety rise up in his throat, as he realizes the ball isn't going anywhere.
"Damn it," he says, fearing that his parents will get upset and that they won't let him play with the ball anymore.
But maybe they don't need to know, he thinks as a thought crosses his mind. Maybe he could get it down all by himself.
He reaches up towards the roof, as he recalls what he's learnt watching his parents and his sister. He closes his eyes, focusing on every sensation he can feel. Every breath, the movement of his diaphragm constricting his lungs, the beat of his heart, like a drum in his chest, the wind ruffling through his hair and the pressure of the earth pressing back against his feet.
"There is power in the Flesh. This is what Ion said to the people of blood and snow as he stood atop the spine of the world," he recites, as his mind expands to encompass every single cell in his body. He can feel the blood rushing through his veins, the neurons firing in his brain, the churning of his bowels and the filtration of water into his cells through osmosis. He is aware of every cell, every protein, every molecule within his system, and he can feel the power within.
"There is power in the Flesh. This is what Ion screamed as he showed the people of blood and snow the divinity within himself as he became a dragon of meat and bone that blot out the sun." His mind reaches out even further, now feeling the cells and chemical processes within the life around him. The grass and the insects within it, the people inside, a bird on the sky, he can feel them all as if they are a part of him. His arm begins to tingle and creak.
"There is power in the Flesh, Ion roared to those who understood…" Jeremy's eyes shoot open. "…and it is for you to harness. Consume divinity. Become God." Jeremy is nearly thrown off his feet due to his center of balance shifting, as his arm suddenly elongates. The filaments within his muscles elongate and their structure becomes more complex. The insides of his arm tickle, as new bones and ligaments and joints come into existence. The structure of his arm, now several feet long and wrinkly, muscles rippling and shifting under its skin, reminds him of a noodle, as it can bend and turn in angles that his normal arm could not. He had expected this to hurt, but instead it felt pleasant. Powerful. Like a part of him that he didn't knew existed was missing, but now he is whole. He grabs the ball on the roof, and lets his arm retract and shrink to its original form, just as the door opens.
"What on Earth are you doing?" Braelynn screams as she storms out. Jeremy drops the ball, as he feels the color drain from his face and his blood go cold. Braelynn kneels down and grabs tightly on the boys shoulders.
"What the hell we're you thinking? We've told you that we can never show our abilities outside! We have guests for crying out loud! What if they saw? What if…" she rants, but chokes on her words as she watches a car drive past with baited breath. After it disappears behind a corner, she turns back to Jeremy and continues, but her tone is no longer angry, but worried, almost pleading.
"Listen to me carefully Jeremy. There are people out there who hate who we are. They think what we do is a danger to society because they don't understand it. They will never understand it, and they have no mercy. If they found out what we can do, they would lock us up forever… or worse, and I can't lose you to them. Do you understand?" she says, looking her son straight in the eyes.
"Yes, mother," he says quietly.
"Promise me that you will never use your abilities in public like that again."
"I promise." She draws the boy into a hug, holding him for a few seconds, sniffling quietly.

The next day, Jeremy is sitting in the school hallway, a textbook in his lap. An exam is coming up, but he cannot concentrate on reading, when there is something way more interesting to study. He can hear the heartbeats of everyone in the school. No, not hear. Feel. As if they are his own. Since unlocking the power of the Flesh, he has felt more connected to the world, more present, and that makes him happy. A heartbeat approaches him. A heartbeat he does not like.
"What's up, nerd?" says the owner of the heartbeat, one Will Matherson, as he snatches Jeremy's book away from him, dangling it in the air in front of him. Yesterday Jeremy would have said nothing against Will who is bigger, stronger and tougher than him. But today he no longer feels inferior. He knows he is more powerful. He can feel Will's heart beat, and he knows that if he wanted to, he could stop it. He recalls something he's heard his sister say.
"Fuck off," he says with confidence. The other boy laughs.
"What did you say to me?" he says, smiling like a fool. Jeremy stands up and takes a step towards him.
"I said: fuck off." Will drops the book and takes a step back, cracking his knuckles.
"I'll show you how to fuck off." He leans back as he throws his fist in a wide arc towards Jeremy's face. Jeremy sees the fist, clenched so tight that the knuckles are white, approach rapidly. For a second his confidence wavers and panic kicks in, as he reaches with his mind into Will's body, wrapping it around his muscles and telling them to stop. The fist stops just a few inches of his face, as Will stands still, frozen mid-swing.
"Huat did you do to he?" he asks through paralyzed lips, slurring his speech. His eyes dart around wildly, and his muscles contract in a futile attempt to escape the arcane grasp they are in. Jeremy laughs, as any slightest hint of fear that he used to have towards Will fades away.
However, a panic from another source lifts its ugly head once again, as Jeremy hears the clanking of heels from an adjacent corridor. He releases Will as a teacher rounds the corner, just in time to see a confused and scared Will scamper away from Jeremy.
"He's a witch! He's a demon! Get him away from me!" he shouts as he runs past the teacher who is starting to look more and more pissed by the second.
"Jeremy Miller-Yahontov," she says sternly. "Principals office. Now."
Just a few moments later, Jeremy is sitting and staring at his lap again, but this time there is no book there. Instead, a middle-aged man sits behind a mahogany table, his stare burning a hole in Jeremy's forehead.
"Mr. Matherson says that you 'froze him in place'. Is this true?" he says.
"No," Jeremy responds, unable to make eye contact.
"We don't tolerate bullying in this school, and lying neither."
"He's the one who bullies me! He was about to hit me!"
"So you admit you're guilty."
"…No. What Will is saying isn't even possible!"
"Is it not?" The man cracks a half-smile, but it quickly fades. "Regardless, you clearly did something to him. The boy is terrified."
It is at this moment, that Jeremy realizes that he cannot feel the principals heartbeat. In fact, as he inspects deeper, he cannot sense a heart at all. No blood. No lungs. No… brain. Jeremy thinks he's sinking into his chair. The ticking off the clock becomes deafening, beating against the insides of his skull and scattering all of his thoughts.
But wait… this room doesn't have a clock.
Something moves behind the man's eyes. "Don't."
Does he know? White as a sheet, Jeremy draws his mind back, slithering his intangible tendrils back into his head. It feels confined now. Claustrophobic. He thinks he's suffocating.
"This is going on your permanent record, but you can go now. I have a few calls to make," the man says, a smile on his face, but not on his eyes.

Walking home, Jeremy's mind is infested with thoughts. Like mosquitoes in the night, they buzz around his head. You don't know where they are and you can't catch them, but you know they're there. However, like mosquitoes from bug repellent, all his thoughts scatter and flee as he sees the black, featureless van parked in his driveway. Dread takes the place of the mosquitoes.
With heavy steps, like waddling in water, he walks past the van as it towers over him. An alien monolith of obsidian dropped in the middle of everything he deems dear. He can hear the voice of his father from the inside.
"What's this about?" he asks in a polite tone, but it is clearly forced.
"We got an anonymous tip that you might have illegal contraband," says another deep voice that Jeremy does not recognize. I need to make a few calls echoes in his mind. "Don't worry, this is just a routine inspection. We need to check these things out, but it's usually nothing. There's no danger to your family." Jeremy senses the man's blood pump faster as he says those words. It had been a lie.
Jeremy steps inside as quietly as he can, trying to observe the scene before he becomes a part of it. The rest of his family is stood to the side of the living room, as several men and women rifle through their house. They are all dressed in black suits, and their jackets have a gun-sized bulge.
"Ah, little Mister Miller-Yahontov. Glad to meet you," says one of the men, offering a hand towards Jeremy. Begrudgingly, he takes it and lets the man shake it vigorously.
"Honey come here," his mother says, gesturing him to come closer. Jeremy complies, and his mother wraps her arm protectively around him. Pressed against her, Jeremy can feel his mother flinch as one the people in suits steps on a squeaky toy.
"Do you have a dog?"
"Yes, but he is currently… on a playdate with another dog," Braelynn says. Jeremy closes his eyes, trying to focus on Chompy. He senses him hiding in an air duct close by, his tendrils wriggling in barely contained anger.
Another intruder stops to look at an old picture framed on top of the fireplace.
"Where's your other son?" he asks, furrowing his brow.
"Daughter now, actually. And that's me," answers Chloe, shooting a cold look at the stranger.
"Oh, my apologies," he says and goes back to invading their privacy.
One of the intruders walks up to the family, trudging confidently like it's her house. She looks over the four, finally setting her eyes on the smallest. A smile spreads across her face as she kneels in front of Jeremy, bringing herself to his eye level. Her expression is warm, and for a moment he thinks it's genuine, but there's something else under the surface. Something dead. The eyes of a vulture.
"Hey there, kid," she says, her words dripping honey, sickly sweet. "What's your name?"
"J- Jeremy," he stutters. He tries to look her in the face, but her eyes, cold blue like the winter sky, pierce into his brain and Jeremy can't help but turn away.
"Jeremy. What a lovely name. Is there anything you'd like to tell me Jeremy? Any secrets?" she asks, play-whispering the word 'secrets'. Jeremy's lips suddenly feel like the trigger of a gun. He doesn't say anything.
"Any information you could give us would make this go a lot easier, you know."
"You're scaring him. He's just a kid for god's sake. Do you have no integrity?" his dad pipes up. Jeremy notices that he's nervously tugging down on his t-shirt sleeve, trying to hide a tattoo depicting a tusked skull with a single eye socket. The one he's always refused to talk about.
"As much as I appreciate your concerns, Mr. Yahontov, I suggest you just let me do my job," the woman says, getting up and refocusing her attention on the man.
"Do your job? You mean break into my home and terrorize my family? You expect me to just sit by as you traumatize my child?" he says, his voice rising as he steps forward. Jeremy sees a vein on his arm slither unnaturally beneath his skin like a snake in water. The woman does not seem to notice this, but takes a step back and puts a hand on her weapon nevertheless.
"Step back. Right now." All of the pretentiousness in her voice has faded. It is as cold as her eyes.
Jeremy feels a wave emanating from his father. Something powerful and old raising its head for the first time in ages. Quick snapshots of images flood his mind. Teeth, claws, chains, a giant eye staring back at him, its pupil constricting in recognition. His father cracks his neck, as more veins bulge and slither. He can feel his heart forcing itself to its limits, as he begins to huff like a bull seeing red. He goes to take another step.
Metal rattles against plastic as the woman draws her weapon. The bones in his fathers hand crack from sheer force as he curls it into a fist. Cloth shuffles as Jeremy is nearly thrown to the side by her mother, who surges forward. She places herself between the two, her other hand pushing her husband back, and the other placed defensively in front of them. The woman in a suit stops, her finger having pulled the trigger halfway through.
"Adrik. Don't," Braelynn whispers to her husband. Something that had been gone for a second, comes back to his eyes as he hears his name. Jeremy feels the power fall asleep once again. Adrik takes a step back, and the woman holsters her weapon, slowly. Keeping an eye on the man as she walks away, she goes back to rummaging the house. Jeremy lets out a sigh he didn't know he was holding.
Seconds turn into minutes, and minutes feel like hours, but eventually, one of the intruders lifts up his arms defeatedly.
"Looks like it was a dead lead. Sorry for the trouble. Lets go folks," he says and walks out, the others in tow. The family waits for the van to start and drive off, before anyone says anything.
"We need to move," Jeremy's father says matter-of-factly, as they all embrace each other. Chompy slithers out of the air duct, and joins the hug.