< I Double E | DNM | Seven Vignettes From The Life Of Mackenzie Lee-Crook >
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SCP Foundation Audio Database
File 98A07 - Excerpts from the Hyacinth Hymnal, 2012–13.
A shortwave radio broadcast believed to be sourced to the Order of the Hyacinth (Cross City, Fla.), operating since 1978 at the latest. While the station typically broadcasts only tones and numbers,1 occasional songs, Biblical readings and conversations have been broadcast on the station. All broadcasts from 20██ and 201██ consistently featured one voice, Person of Interest-35223. POI-35223 has not been identified, and the station has not broadcast since the final excerpt presented here.

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Transcript
Excerpt 1 - "Daffodils Yellow And Hyacinths Blue" (0:00–0:56)
A hymn of unknown composition.

POI-35233: You ready?

Bass guitar and slide guitar are played. POI-35233 and UNKNOWN sing.

POI-35233 and UNKNOWN:
    Daffodils yellow and hyacinths blue
    Good Lord, good Lord, I'm coming home to you
    Balance me, fellow, with innocence true
    Good Lord, good Lord, I'm coming home to you

    It has not been an easy ride, born on the shore
    Good Lord, good Lord, show me that white door
    And if my spirit doth misguide, I am not done for
    Good Lord, good Lord, show me that white door

    Daffodils yellow and hyacinths blue
    Good Lord, good Lord, I'm coming home to you
    Balance me, fellow, with innocence true
    Good Lord, good Lord, I'm coming home to you
Excerpt 2 - "Lord, You Have Come To The Lakeshore" (0:58–2:20)
Takes many lines from a hymn by Cesareo Gabarain, though the music shares no resemblance.

A fiddle is played. POI-35233 sings.

POI-35233:
    Lord, you have come to the lakeshore
    Looking neither for wealthy nor wise ones
    You only asked me to follow humbly.

    [UNINTELLIGIBLE]

    Lord, with your eyes you have searched me,
    Kindly smiling, have spoken my name
    Now my boat's left on the shoreline behind me;
    By your side I will seek other seas

    You know so well my possessions
    My boat carries no gold and no weapons
    But nets and fishes -- my daily labor
    You need my hands, full of caring

    Through my labors to give others rest,
    And constant love that keeps on loving
    You, who have fished other oceans
    Ever longed-for by souls who are waiting

    My loving friend, as thus you call me.
Excerpt 3 - Reading of Micah 7:1-7 (2:22–3:22)

A fiddle is played. POI-35233 speaks.

POI-35233:
    Woe is me! for I am as when they have gathered the summer
    fruits, as the grapegleanings of the vintage: there is no
    cluster to eat: my soul desired the firstripe fruit.

    The good man is perished out of the earth: and there is none
    upright among men: they all lie in wait for blood; they hunt
    every man his brother with a net.

    That they may do evil with both hands earnestly, the prince
    asketh, and the judge asketh for a reward; and the great man,
    he uttereth his mischievous desire: so they wrap it up.

    The best of them is as a brier: the most upright is sharper
    than a thorn hedge: the day of thy watchmen and thy visitation
    cometh; now shall be their perplexity.

    Trust ye not in a friend, put ye not confidence in a guide:
    keep the doors of thy mouth from her that lieth in thy bosom.

    For the son dishonoureth the father, the daughter riseth up
    against her mother, the daughter in law against her mother in
    law; a man's enemies are the men of his own house.

    Therefore I will look unto the Lᴏʀᴅ; I will wait for the God
    of my salvation: my God will hear me.
Excerpt 4 - "Here And Heaven" (3:30–4:59)
Written by bluegrass artist Chris Thile in 2011.

A banjo is played. POI-35233 and UNKNOWN sing.

POI-35233 and UNKNOWN:
    With a hammer and nails and a fear of failure we
    are building a shed
    Between here and heaven between the wait and the
    wedding for as long as we both shall be dead
    to the world beyond the boys and the girls trying
    to keep us calm
    We can practice our lines 'til we're deaf and blind
    to ourselves to each other where it's

    Fall not winter spring not summer cool not cold
    And it's warm not hot have we all forgotten that
    we're getting old

    With an arrow and bow and some seeds left to sow
    we are staking our claim
    On ground so fertile we forget who we've hurt along
    the way and reach out for a strange hand
    to hold someone strong but not bold enough to
    tear down the wall
    'Cause we ain't lost enough to find the stars ain't
    crossed why align them why fall hard
    not soft into

    Fall not winter spring not summer cool not cold
    Where it's warm not hot has everyone forgotten that
    we're getting old
Excerpt 5 - Reading of Psalm 40 (5:02–6:58)

POI-35233 speaks. Periodic gunshots are heard.

POI-35233:
    I waited patiently for the Lord; and he inclined unto me, and
    heard my cry.

    He brought me up also out of an horrible pit, out of the miry
    clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and established my goings.

    And he hath put a new song in my mouth, even praise unto our
    God: many shall see it, and fear, and shall trust in the Lord.

    Blessed is that man that maketh the Lord his trust, and
    respecteth not the proud, nor such as turn aside to lies.

    Many, O Lord my God, are thy wonderful works which thou hast
    done, and thy thoughts which are to us-ward: they cannot be
    reckoned up in order unto thee: if I would declare and speak
    of them, they are more than can be numbered.

    Sacrifice and offering thou didst not desire; mine ears hast
    thou opened: burnt offering and sin offering hast thou no
    required.

    Then said I, Lo, I come: in the volume of the book it is
    written of me,

    I delight to do thy will, O my God: yea, thy law is within my
    heart.

    I have preached righteousness in the great congregation: lo, I
    have not refrained my lips, O Lord, thou knowest.

    I have not hid thy righteousness within my heart; I have
    declared thy faithfulness and thy salvation: I have not
    concealed thy lovingkindness and thy truth from the great
    congregation.

    Withhold not thou thy tender mercies from me, O Lord: let thy
    lovingkindness and thy truth continually preserve me.

    For innumerable evils have compassed me about: mine iniquities
    have taken hold upon me, so that I am not able to look up;
    they are more than the hairs of mine head: therefore my heart
    faileth me.

    Be pleased, O Lord, to deliver me: O Lord, make haste to help
    me.

    Let them be ashamed and confounded together that seek after my
    soul to destroy it; let them be driven backward and put to
    shame that wish me evil.

    Let them be desolate for a reward of their shame that say unto
    me,

POI-35233 pauses. Heavy breathing is heard.

    Let all those that seek thee rejoice and be glad in thee: let
    such as love thy salvation say continually, The Lord be
    magnified.

    But I am poor and needy; yet the Lord thinketh upon me: thou
    art my help and my deliverer; make no tarrying, O my God.

The sound of a gun being loaded. Broadcast ends.

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< I Double E | DNM | Seven Vignettes From The Life Of Mackenzie Lee-Crook >

Footnotes
1. Per the Conet Policy, all known shortwave numbers stations have been automatically logged in Foundation databases since 1998.


< Fault Lines | DNM | Operation Cannery Row: Document 2013§451A3 >
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McTiriss, Solowski, Houghton and Perez stumbled, but landed on their feet. The ninety-degree shift in gravity upon jumping through the gravesite hole wasn't pleasant, but ‘unpleasant' was a fine working baseline for this day, all things considered. They were standing on the floor of the Parliament of Montenegro in…whatever the capital of Montenegro was, Kate thought. Men and women in suits and ties surrounded them, looking terrified and slack-jawed. A man in a jacket with a patch on the sleeve lay dead on the ground about twenty feet off from where LMTF 352-Lamedh emerged, looking like he shot himself. Standard murder-suicide, except the victim fell through a hole into a pet cemetery five thousand miles away.
Kate crouched down and opened up her briefcase, switching on the signal jammer and putting in her earpeace, activating the emergency Foundation radio connection. She was on the line with International, and nobody else in this building had any contact with the outside world. She spoke softly into the mic, crowd still staring at her and her three compatriots in confusion, “International, this is LMTF 352-Lamedh, Director McTiriss speaking. I'm in the capital of Montenegro establishing preliminary containment on a spacial anomaly. Stand by for details, engaging in crowd control. Do you copy?” A crackly voice, barely making it through the jammer, responded. “Site-19 here. We copy.” She grabbed the fake badge she needed from the case and stood tall. Showtime.
“Hello, folks, Interpol agent Kate McTiriss here.” She flashed the badge. “We're the rapid response team. You are not in any danger, our manner of entrance was authorized by the European Commission in 1998. I understand all of you have just witnessed something very upsetting. We're here to discover the facts and ensure justice is served, so I'll need everyone to remain calm and remain in the building.” Rapid-fire, authoritative bullshit, Kate thought. It's how you go from press director to run a Task Force. Unlike usual, the crowd didn't seem to be buying it, though. Most of them looked at her, confused and scared as ever. Her arms dropped to her sides as she realized her mistake with a sigh.
“Okay, right. I need someone that speaks English to translate what I just said for everyone that doesn't.” A young man in glasses, college-age and wearing a truly awful clip-on tie, stepped forward meekly. Kate acknowledged him with a nod. “Uh, I'm Ludovik Miani, legislative assistant.” He shook her hand, his palms sweaty. “Okay, super. Ludovik, tell the people what I just said.” He nodded and turned to the assembled Parliament. She thought back to her old boss again. Sometimes, Kate, you've gotta put your faith in local resources, even if they're miles from ideal. She stepped away from the kid, back to her team.
Perez was clapping. “Great showing, Kate, me and the six other people here that could understand it really dug the speech.”
She looked at him, wishing a glare could set his stupid grinning face alight. “Shut the fuck up, Oren. Titus, go back through and take pictures of the body. Come back with the unredacted list of SCP-2072 graves and a spare sidearm from the squad car, I'm feeling underarmed.”
“Playing field agent, cute. If you ever actually get around to shooting a guy I'm sure you'll never shut up about it.”
She hoped her grimace at that wasn't as visible as it felt. She shook off the memory. “I need everyone to cut the backtalk. Three people are dead and I am in charge here, fuckos.” Titus Solowski, his anchor tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve, hopped back through the hole in the floor. Kate put her finger back up to the earpiece to work out a containment plan with International.

- | - | -

“Forty-eight people, looks like.” Static for a few seconds in return. This is where the decisions the Ethics Committee wrung their hands about later were made. Three guys in a room in Site-19 were thinking on the number forty-eight, deciding the value of that many lives. Kate knew about International. Forty-eight was nothing compared to keeping the veil on.
The Einstein-Rosen bridge was stable, displaying no abnormal radiation and a constant safe reality level. The other graves from 2072 were blank, coffins empty, Solowski had informed her. This thing was neutralized, all the magic was gone from the place. The only problem, then, was these forty-eight Montenegrins that saw a man shoot their Prime Minister, shoot himself, and saw four deeply underprepared Americans jump out of a grave-shaped hole in the ground seconds after. The building had to go, International said.
The crackling stopped. “Your call, Director. We've got the 747 circling if you give the go order.”
They pussied out. Kate bunched up her fists. Of course they did. They had an autopiloted 747 circling the fucking Parliament, ready to bring down the building, the witnesses, *and* set up the easiest cover story in the world. People always bought terror.
But she had to say “go.” She had to be the one to kill forty-eight innocent people for the Greater Good. She drew in a breath, closed her eyes, and rocked back on her heels.

- | - | -
EIGHT YEARS EARLIER

It was an unseasonably cold morning in the District. Kate McTiriss, Press Attaché for the FBI, woke up well before sunrise with her fiancée in her arms and tears welling in her eyes. She'd cooked a nice dinner for Anne the night before, and the taste of the good red wine stuck in her mouth. This was her last chance to tell her, to say ‘fuck you' to the whole thing and put her life before work for once and for good.
But she fucked up. And she had to make it right. She kissed Anne on the head and left their bed for the last time. She broke down as she stepped out, putting on her blazer like battle armor.
Hours later, she was driving the senior environmental reporter for the Washington Post out to the Arlington suburbs. She'd been playing whistleblower with him for years, feeding him just the right lies to keep the media off of the things the UIU dealt with that the people couldn't know about. But she gave him too much. He was close to figuring it out, and he needed to go. It was Kate's fault, so she had to do the honors. She served the Bureau well, so they'd set her up with a gig with a partner org out in the middle of nowhere. All she had to do was kill Greg Ionnas and the UIU would fake her death and whisk her off to Florida, of all fucking places. They stepped out of the car in front of the warehouse, Greg with his camera around his neck. He thought he was here to take the photos that would make his career.
Kate drew in a breath, closed her eyes, and rocked back on her heels. She felt her gun holstered to her hip. She exhaled.
She led the man inside.

- | - | -

She exhaled.
Kate walked up to Houghton and the kid, Ludovik, translating his questions. “We're going back through, Houghton. Ludovik, we'll be back in three minutes. Keep everyone here.” She handed him the gun Solowski brought her. Miles from ideal, Kate.
She brought her guys back through the hole and put her hand to her ear. “Consider this your go order.”

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< Fault Lines | DNM | Operation Cannery Row: Document 2013§451A3 >


Quinine's bitter, sugar's sweet! The music blared. It was the only way she could stay alert in the early mornings.
Regional Director Kate McTiriss drummed her fingers on the desk, whiny lo-fi music playing out of her laptop speakers. She pushed the button on the radio again.
“Outpost 2072, you're late for the sunrise check-in. Do you copy?”
She heard only static and acoustic guitar. “Jeff, you can't pull this shit, it's 6:21, you're almost half an hour late for check-in.” Director McTiriss sighed and paused her music, stepping out of her office into the bullpen, three tired agents monitoring news wires from all across North Florida. “Heads up, guys, we're heading to Micanopy. Jeff's not radioing in.” They looked relieved to have something to do. Solowski downed the last of his coffee and slipped on his windbreaker. He asked, “Permission to shoot him myself if we get there and he's asleep?”
“Provisionally granted. I'm driving. Houghton, let Atlanta know we've got a potential containment compromise on a Safe-class. Perez, get on the database on your phone and tell me if there's been any news relevant to SCP-2072 recently.”
They barreled down 441, through the early-morning prairie. The sun hadn't been up long enough to burn off the thick fog, lending the well-worn horizon more mystery than it deserved, considering how many times this exact car full of these exact agents had made this exact trip.

- | - | -

The doors on their Crown Vic closed with a satisfying slam that echoed through the woods. The pet cemetery that doubled as SCP-2072 was off a long dirt pathway, tucked deep in the timber by the Marion County line. The four defenders of fucking nowhere that made up Local Mobile Task Force 352-Lamedh — “Stump Knockers,” to their friends — tentatively edged their way towards the outpost. Houghton and Perez, guns drawn and tall frames crouched, flanked McTiriss and Solowski, carrying briefcases full of provisional containment supplies. Kate's eyes darted from grave to grave. This place was unsettling even when there wasn't a thick layer of fog.
As they approached the one-window temporary office Jeff Pink sat in for 12 hours a day, they saw the security camera mounted on it shot to pieces. Kate heard Solowski mutter under his breath. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” She gestured with two fingers towards the door, put her shirtsleeve around her hand (so as to not disturb any prints) and twisted the knob.
When someone gets shot in the head in the movies, they get this perfect little circular hole and slump down. Christ-like, really, like a personal stigmata for the frontal lobe, Kate thought. Maybe it was just on her mind because she was clutching her rosary. Because in real life, there's no pretty little hole. Field Agent Jeff Pink's head was torn open. Brain and blood pooled on the ground, wall behind him splattered with viscera, mouth hanging open in an unrecognizable howl. Kate McTiriss felt that familiar bitterness in the back of her mouth, stomach flipping over. No matter how many times she saw this, it didn't change. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

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Kate radioed into Atlanta first, voice wavering more than she'd like. This was the first staff death since she took over the force. “We've had a Safe-class containment incursion, region 352, SCP-2072. Containment re-established but the info is out, scramble task forces near Montenegro with a focus on protecting 2072-Named individuals.” Next was Jacksonville for backup. “352-Zayin, send all free agents to Micanopy, we've had a 2072 breach and an agent killed.”
There wasn't a soul still around. Whoever did this got in, got what they wanted and booked it straight back to Hell. The tarps covering the 23 graves that seemed to predict every Prime Minister of Montenegro were still there, but the presence of amateur knots instead of Foundation-standard constrictors betrayed the purpose of the incursion. Solowski summed it up best. “Some Montenegrins are gonna try and fuck causality right in the ass.”
The question was when. The answer was coming sooner than the under-staffed and under-rested agents of 352-Lamedh were quite ready for. McTiriss felt another lurch in her stomach, but this one wasn't nerves. It felt like all the air in her lungs was trying to escape and throw a Goddamn party on the way out. Her ears popped. Orientation told her about this feeling. It's the feeling of nearby space folding in on itself. Or as her old boss put it, “It's like Einstein and Rosen teaming up to gangbang you, Kate. It's the feeling of your day getting a lot less fun.”
Not that this day was any fun to start with.
The four people standing lost their balance, stumbling with sudden vertigo. The air cracked like a whip and the sound rustled through the surrounding woods. The ground beneath one of the graves began to collapse, like the dirt was falling through a funnel. A hole, a perfect rectangle, formed in the ground, light pouring out of it. The pressure in everyone's ears disappeared, they could stand up straight again. Kate approached the hole. She saw the image through it, light wood and large desks tilted at a strange angle. A figure was standing, clutching his heart, blocking her view. He fell backwards in the image and straight through the hole. Four North Florida agents stared at the suit-wearing corpse of a member of the Montenegrin parliament, slumped pathetically in the leaves.
“What in the name of the ever-loving holy fucking mother.” She could hear screams in the room through the grave. A gunshot rang out, more screams. Kate turned to her men and gestured towards the hole with two fingers. They jumped in.

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DNM | Going Straight To Hell In A Lincoln Continental >


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Kingdom of Stone: The Underclass
An abandoned tale series that will be picked up again some day
Eat more of my SCPs. Eat them all.
Also please eat some of these

Anabasis Hub Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world
Manna Charitable Foundation 2000 The sequel to the above, collaborationed with Dr Reach
The Stuff Industry What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff.
When MCF and Stuff happen A fun story of incompetence

When I saw the sky open, I suspected they would make their attempt there. What I expected was a bumbling mass of men, noise and frenzy, cowed by the glint of steel. At worst, some would die. Nevertheless, I would give them what aid I could; I always took a perverse pleasure in seeing some new disaster or atrocity break the monotony of everyday life.
The sky is always gray for weeks at a time. Even when the sky opens, there is nothing to shield you from its light. There are no rocks or mountains nearby — they have all been mined and collapsed. I expected the light alone would break up what ever plans they had.
So I sat atop a small ridge overlooking the deep crack in the earth where the mines ran down. I had a clear view of what would become the open field of battle for all of an hour. I began to take notes, expecting a brief report for the Overseer. I didn't expect to write a novella. Nevertheless, I intended to write as much as possible, to amuse my readers further.
How it began was with a guttural blast of noise. To call it a trumpet blast would imply the miners had any metal of their own to fashion for such amenities. I expected men, dirty men in dirty clothes. I saw them; I saw women and children. Some had wrapped blocks of wood or rock to their forearms and torsos, makeshift armor. The mass of humanity had to be in the thousands. I fully expected the numbers, but I had not conceived of just how massive such a number would actually look drawn out upon an open space.
I do them ill justice to call them a mere "mass", but all proper reports on the incident must include such a term. In fact there was a surprising level of discipline among them. They began a chant; it was elaborate, if indistinct, like a paean to a god of homicide. Beautiful to behold, on such a massive scale. You could hardly muster enough interest in such ceremony amongst professional knights. It was exquisite, but efficient; they were ready to break and move at a moment's notice. When the guards took up a phalanx of shield and club and sword, the ranks of miners broke and charged.
Some had their pickaxes or shovels to use as weapons. This was soon determined to be folly, as many did harm to their own comrades long before they could emerge before the actual enemy. I do not know what was anticipated by the ringleaders, but the ground was utterly impracticable for the sort of grand and glorious man-to-man combat you read in tales. The guards refused to let the miners' numbers exploit the open land, and deployed themselves upon the spiraling stairwell coming up to the cusp, near where I now sat.
This exquisite army of rebellious miners devolved into a mass out of necessity. What else could a man or woman do? The men in front were meat, to be slaughtered by the guards. Whether they knew this or not, I could not tell, for there was no sign of any relent or attempt to break and run. Perhaps there simply was not enough time, or perhaps none in the front ranks noticed just how quickly they died.
Again, tales do combat no justice; it is impossible for a man, no matter his strength, to cleave through other men with a blade as if hacking through linens and fabrics. Blades stuck in flesh, in muscle, and in bone. Once the miners realized this, they understood that steel was not as strong as flesh, and the one weapon they had in abundance was flesh.
Nothing was said to any of the miners, or at least no cry that could be discerned as intelligible by myself. As one, they seemed to understand that their sole advantage over the enemy was themselves. "Meat", the guards had disparagingly called the miners for so long. Now they truly were meat. The bodies dropped, and more followed. One by one, guards lost hold of their weapons as they stuck in the viscera of the masses. Miners tore at the shields, losing nail and digit as they sought simply to give their lives to one purpose or another; "lower this shield", "bash this helmet", "gouge this eye". A singular task, to be fulfilled in the brief moments allowed to their miserable lives, before dying.
Here is where the term "mass" can be applied; less than a full hour in, the miners began to walk atop the guards. I mean that literally! The bodies stacked high enough that the living could walk over the dead, and walk atop the guards, kicking at helmets, screaming, becoming impaled or eviscerated by the enemies yet to see the front lines. That is how they lost their weapons. They brought their shields up, attempting to keep the miners off of their heads. A sensible tactic, if not for the fact that the mass of miners continued to move over the shields. Now they trapped the guards completely, from front, rear, and top.
There was no more "battle" then; I could make out the figured of men and women both grabbing and scratching with bare hands and teeth. They tore away pieces of armor in their enemy, or simply punched and kicked defiantly, breaking their bones in the hopes of simply denting the enemy's breastplate or gorget. Some of the dead began to petrify; those with the strength to do so broke off fingers or entire arms to use as bludgeons.
As they continued to advance, more and more people fell from the elevated walkways. At some point, the guards broke, but retained enough sense to recognize the folly of leaping from such a height. With what little they had left, they began to push forward, pressing the mob back down. They only sought to get closer to the ground, so they could stand a better chance of limping free once they had struck the bottom. It would have been a glorious sight if it had succeeded. At some point, I imagine, it became as if the guards had hit a wall. They began to fall away, in twos and threes, until none were left. The miners continued to bodily swarm upon each other for long moments after, until finally a coherent enough cry rose up to cease the animal panic.
All at once, they were human again. Men kissed women, men kissed men, women kissed women, everyone was in ecstasy. A few fell and died afterwards, or dropped from the exhaustion. Few got back up. The crowd came out of the mine, and spread across the landscape. I did not fear them; I had nothing worth taking, and I dressed as modestly as they. I did fear they would confiscate my notes, and prevent my report from reaching the Overseer's eyes. But they easily took me for one of them — I imagine more than a few of the miners were previously literate men and women, as the fact that I continued to write did not arouse the suspicion as I would have anticipated of a mob of uneducated peasants.
I can tell you now why they succeeded. Not there in the mines; that was sheer numbers alone, but why they succeeded in breaking out of the Lowlands and destroying the border guard so soundly. The guards hired by the mine owners were foreign men, unaccustomed to one another. They ate and slept in the same barracks, but they did not truly live the same lives. Some could not speak the same language. They were ex-knights, men-at-arms, sellswords, or soldiers of fortune. They learned to fight individually, for duels or contests of money and valor.
The miners had endured decades of hardship together. The deprivations they endured were endurable solely because of the shared effort of them all to extricate themselves from certain death. They had done more than eaten and slept together; some did not even eat, but gave their meager rations to others. Childless women offered their breast to motherless infants, elder men were given more time to rest, while complete strangers broke their bodies to fulfill the old men's quotas. They had established a community in the rocky depths, and they were driven not by money or glory or valor. They were not driven even by fear.
They loved one another. All of them together acknowledged one another as friend and family. The only fear they felt was fear that they would all suffer if any individual failed at any point in their journey for freedom.
I tell you this, Overseer; such a force as that is the most dangerous and deadly you will ever find anywhere. Many would see this mob of vagabonds and peasants and fear them. I suggest you look upon them, if and when they arrive, and greet them with love. They are a nation unto themselves. All they will need is a hand such as yours to claim them. An entire under-class, subject to your will.
Eternally your servant,
Hagne-Allon

The Overseer — not the intended reader of the report — set down the sheaf of parchment, and smiled up at the short woman kneeling before her. She looked young enough to be the Overseer's daughter, in another time.
"An entire 'under-class'?" The Eighth Overseer knelt down, placing a finger beneath the short woman's chin and tilting her head back. The woman shuddered. The Eighth Overseer had lost much of the left side of her jaw, too much for panacea to recover. She had been almost beautiful in her youth. She still saw herself as such now… as much of her original body was left.
"Truly these people are not strong or educated enough to be considered citizens proper."
"According to whom?"
The woman squirmed and tried not to look at the gaping hole in the side of the Overseer's face, "To all good and noble persons of the Third Overseer's Empire."
She patted the woman on the cheek, "You are now a good and noble person of the Eighth Overseer's Empire. Do you understand?"
The woman nodded hesitantly.
"And these miners… the 'under-class', are now subjects of my new Empire. Do you understand?"
Again, she nodded.
"Go find them, and direct them here to Whore's End. Make sure to avoid the artists, and don't drink from the river."

« The End of a Man | The Under-Class | A Monolithic Species »


I walked.
I knew my end was near. I had not felt my feet for ages now, Overseer knows for how long. They used to ache, but that stopped quickly. As soon as they began to turn to stone, that is.
I am an old man, lived to see many a war, fight in a few even. I don't know if to count myself lucky to live in this cold, hard world, with little to no hope of tomorrow. Heh, grim thoughts for a dying man.
They say your last thoughts should be of home. Too bad I don't have any. Not after the Fifth Overseer's army burned it down. Damn them and their disputes to hell.
I look around, seeing nothing but death around me. A battlefield, full of men and women, frozen in their last moments of horror, old friends and new foes alike. Beheaded bodies with their hearts pierced by arrows, still standing. Those few who did not die right away lying face down, with sand flowing from their veins to litter the ground. Fear still lingers on their faces, as it does on mine. I am terrified. Terrified of this war. Terrified of my own upcoming fate.
Oh the foolishness of man to heed their king's word blindly and charge into battle. Why has it come to this I ask, with rulers bickering over their own concerns, throwing the common people at each other, only to prolong what comes to the rest of us; this unforgiving fate of all, both man and god?
God.
What a strange word to use of men who are but near-immortal.
I trample through the barren land full of dust and stone. The skies are dark as ever. I feel the pain of the poisoned arrow in my shoulder sting once again. Might as well break it off, I think as I snap the shaft in half, the shock bringing me to my knees. I crank myself up and keep going. I cannot stay here. This is not the place.
Before me is a forest, petrified much like most of me right now. I feel my ear; it chips off into my hand, and I toss it away. I tread onwards, only to see those same faces all over again. An expression of horror forever etched into those stony eyes and that gravely face. A sad display of foolishness from our Overseers, ones who we once held as gods. Our knighthood means nothing. It is but a carrot on a stick to lure us to fight their battles for them, to solve their fruitless bickering once and for all- and at what cost? Yet another garden of statues dots the landscape.
I have not rested in what feels like forever, but I cannot stop now. To stop is to give up. And I am not ready yet. I feel the fingers on my left hand stiffening, and decide to break them off. Less weight to carry at least.
I shouldn't be far now.
Monsters are what they call them. The creatures out there, hunting what is left of the mankind. A threat to our beloved leaders, and to ourselves. The sole reason to why we exist, to why our Foundation of Knights was born; to slay these threats and stop them. Slay, cure and protect. And look how well we've succeeded. Even now I can see something ahead, crawling its way through these cold woods. I try to go around it from as far as I can.
It had a tail.
I haven't seen an animal all my life. Heard stories, and saw a few statues, but the thought of something other than man existing was… Baffling. To think that we are not alone in this unforgiving world was a scary thought. Mostly because we are weak.
The only reason we exist anymore is the manna, the panacea. Stuff of legends. Golden nectar oozing from deep down under. The greatest reason for our struggles against each other, the greed of our kings… And the only thing keeping them alive.
The smoke of the mines has created a thick layer to cover the skies. Has been that way for… Centuries, at least. Cold and darkness have been the mankind's friend for as far as our memory goes. We don't even know how many moons there are, if any. Sounds like a fairytale to me. A giant stone, flying in the heavens… As believable as the "miracles" our god-kings make.
I think this is it.
I cannot walk another step. My knees crackle with every movement, and I feel them slightly chipping. But I must go on, I am not there yet.
I walk out of the woods.
The sunlight greets me.
A faint flicker from between the smallest crack in the thick mattress of clouds that has always remained there, as far as I could possibly remember.
I look down at the landscape below me. A grey land of dying souls, false kings and misery. My friends and family lying dead, and I have nothing left.
I don't think I've ever seen sunlight before. As I feel my heart slowly come to a halt, I think to myself:
This is good.
This is where I'll stay.

« The End of a Man| The Under-Class »


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“Papa, papa!” The young girl's shrieks greeted Katsuo Tanaka as he opened the door. With a weary smile on his face, the detective knelt down to grab his daughter in a hug.
“Looks like someone's happy today,” he said, lifting his daughter high into the air. “Are you happy to see your papa?” The girl giggled and shrieked, “Papa, look! I'm flying!” Katsuo couldn't help but laugh and kiss his daughter's nose. “Yes you are, sweetie.”
Letting his daughter down lightly, the detective embraced his wife in a warm embrace and a kiss. “You look like you had a rough day,” she said, while she looked over him with some concern.
“New case, Jun. Don't worry about it..” Katsuo blearily rubbed his face as his wife turned on the TV. The local news anchor was in the middle of a story.
“…several deaths of police officials and students in a violent shooting at an apartment…” the anchor reported as images flashed across the screen. “The Fukuoka Metropolitan police has pledged a full investigation, and the Criminal Investigations Bureau is already searching for more evidence.”
Jun's eyes widened. “Is this what you're doing?”
Katsuo's eyes avoided those of his wife. “I said, don't worry about it.”
Before Jun could begin a rebuke, the doorbell rang. She gave her husband a glare that spoke louder than a scream. Then, she got up, and answered the door.
Katsuo closed his eyes and sighed. He heard loud sounds of conversation and happy chatter from the door. Getting up from his seat, he went to the door. At the door, his wife stood chattering away with the visitor. Katsuo's face broke into a wide grin that was matched with an equally broad smile from his closest friend.
“I'm glad that you could make it, Hisashi,” Katsuo said as he shook hands with his guest. “I believe that dinner was just finished.” He glanced at his wife, who gave a discreet nod back to him.
Trading his shoes for a pair of sandals, Hisashi Goto laughed. “Miss a dinner with an old friend and colleague? Not likely!” The handsome man knelt down as Katsuo's daughter peeked out from behind a door. “Oh? Is this little Michiko that I see? She doesn't look so little to me anymore!”
Michiko giggled as she ran out to greet Hisashi. “Uncle Hii-san!” Goto patted her on the head. “You're getting pretty big, aren't you?” Michiko nodded eagerly.
“Michiko, that's not very polite.” Jun scolded. “What do you say to your elders?” Michiko nodded even more eagerly and bowed politely. “Hello, uncle.”
Hisashi laughed. “So serious and polite! What a smart girl.” He returned a deep bow to the tiny girl, who eagerly looked up at her mother, who couldn't help but smile.
After dinner ended, Katsuo and Hisashi sat in Katsuo's office, drinking and talking.
“…and so I tackled the guy when he tried to run. Never even saw the rest of the police coming, the whole time he stood there.” Hisashi laughed as he took another drink.
Katsuo chuckled as well. He set his bottle on the table, and turned to face Hisashi. The jovial man seemed to notice the change in mood, and set his bottle down. “So, I'm guessing that this has to do with why you really invited me over, huh?”
Katsuo nodded. “I wanted to ask you some things about a case. We think that the Dojin-kai are involved. You were the first person that I thought to ask.” The detective handed Hisashi a file. Frowning, the man accepted the file and started reading. After a few moments, he closed the file, still frowning.
“This doesn't make any sense.” Hisashi said after a moment. “The Dojin-kai have nothing to gain from a drug like this. It doesn't fit with their methods at all. Way too flashy, even for yakuza.”
“So, you think that it might not be them?”
“Or perhaps there's some instability in the gang itself. In all of my time spent investigating these guys, I've never heard of anything quite so dramatic.”
Katsuo looked out the window, deep in thought.

The sword edge flashed through the air, cutting a deadly arc.
Naoki Koga parried the cut and responded with one of his own. Launching into a flurry of lightning fast slashes, Naoki drove his opponent backwards step by step, as the furious onslaught forced his opponent on the defensive.
Koga continued to lay down precise blows onto his opponent, with the finesse of a true master. As he sensed his opponent beginning to wear out, he feinted a downwards cut. His opponent took the bait, as Naoki quickly reversed direction and attacked from the right. The sword slammed into his opponent's head, knocking him over with the force of the blow.
“Point!” Naoki glanced over at the referees, who held up flags to award him with the match-winning point. Unbuckling his heavy kendo mask, Naoki wiped the sweat off his face, before bowing to his opponent for a good match. He heard a buzz from his pocket, and pulled out his phone. He had gotten a text.
“MEETING ARRANGED.”
Naoki put his phone away, and smoothed his hair back. Then, he went to get changed.

“Good day, Matsumoto-sama.” Koga bowed deeply. “It is an honor to dine with you today.”
Practically prostrate before the Dojin-kai oyabun, Koga paid his respects to the leader of the Dojin-kai clan. Matsumoto-sama inclined his head slightly, which would've been a refined gesture had Matsumoto-sama not been a shrunken, ancient old man.
For nearly 50 years, Hayato Matsumoto had ruled over the Dojin-kai with his own unique brand of iron-clad discipline and unwavering loyalty, even among the yakuza. Those who worked for the Dojin-kai were bound in blood and faithful to the death. Matsumoto expected no less from his subordinates.
All of which made Naoki's job much harder.
“You are looking well, Koga-kun. It is good to see you.” Matsumoto grinned with a mouth full of broken or missing teeth.
Naoki did not move from his prostrate position. “Thank you, sir. It is an honor to be acknowledged this way.” He remained there until Matsumoto grunted his approval. Koga slowly raised himself upward, remaining on his knees.
Koga read the room around him, trying to gauge the emotions of those around him in order to scan for any potential dangers.
To his left sat the ever perspirant Satoru Yoshida, mopping at his face with a handkerchief, eyes twitching back and forth across the room. To Naoki's right sat a man with whom he was unfamiliar. Naoki glanced down, and noticed that the man sat taut and coiled like a spring, as if he was ready to strike or flee at any moment.
Across the table sat Matsumoto himself, flanked by a bodyguard on his right, and a man with a face of iron-clad intensity to his left, tight-lipped and severe. The man wore his hair close-cropped, with flecks of white beginning to grow in. He was perhaps in his mid 40s, yet he looked youthful and strong enough to take on a man half his age. Naoki noted that the man stood carefully. Unlike the man to Koga's right, this one stood with the grace of a perching ballet dancer while watching over the room.
The man to his right carefully bowed, bringing his head to the ground. He spoke slowly, in a measured tone. “Matsumoto-sama. It is an honor to dine with you.”
Hayato snorted. “Unoriginal as always. Had to steal off someone else, huh Hara-kun?”
Hara noticeably flinched, but grit his teeth. “Of course not, Matsumoto-sama.” He remained bowing.
An uneasy silence crept in, and held for a few moments. Then, Hayato grinned and laughed. “Alright, don't bang your head on the ground. Let's have lunch, hmm?”
Servers came in, exquisite dishes delicately prepared by the kitchen's staff. They worked diligently and carefully, Naoki mused. Well, they were all on the Dojin-kai's payroll, after all.
Normally an upscale restaurant, the 3rd Avenue Soul was in reality owned by the Dojin-kai and run as a front. Unbeknownst to the wealthy patrons who shelled out exorbitant prices for their fare, behind the scenes, the Dojin-kai ran a local headquarters and conducted their illicit trade in a stranglehold over Fukuoka Prefecture's underground scene. Koga and company were having lunch in one of the back rooms, soundproofed and watched over by careful bodyguards.
Platters full of food, Western and Japanese alike, along with exotic delicacies filled the table as Naoki carefully ate, making sure to seem reserved. Satoru, on the other hand, stuffed his mouth and loudly talked. Matsumoto similarly laughed and talked loudly. However, Hara, as Koga noted, ate even less than he did. He seemed to watch for a moment before eating anything, as if checking to see what the others would eat first.
Matsumoto took a long drink, then set his cup down. He looked at Koga, and grinned with that unsettling broken grin. “So, Koga-kun. How's business?”
“Very good, sir. We're expanding rapidly, and the financial district knows who to respect now.” Koga smiled in return.
“Excellent, excellent. And you, Hara-kun? How is your business?”
“Fine, sir. We are doing very well.”
“Oh? Even with you skimming off the top?”
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet forty degrees. Satoru froze, food midway to his mouth. Koga tensed, readying himself for a confrontation. Hara turned to absolute ice, his hands on the table. Matsumoto simply continued to eat, as if nothing had happened.
“S-sir?” Hara said, somewhat unsteadily.
“You heard me. They're doing well even though you're skimming off some of the profits? Interesting.” Matsumoto said before he took another drink.
“I have no idea what you mean, sir. I would never do such a thing?”
“Don't bullshit me, Hara. Let's cut straight to the chase. I know that you've been stealing profits off of the Spirit Dust sales for months now. The only question now is whether or not you're going to admit it. Admit it and give up anyone else involved and I might be a little more lenient. Don't, and it'll be much harder for yo-”
Hara interrupted Matsumoto by picking up one of the carving knives on the table and lunging across the table towards the yakuza oyabun. Naoki tried to grab him, but he was moving too quickly.
However, Hara was not moving too quickly for the iron-faced man. Moving like a coiled snake, he intercepted the knife lunge with his left hand, and jammed a knife of his own into Hara's lower abdomen. Hara collapsed, gasping across the table, a red stain blooming over his shirt.
Matsumoto grunted, and clapped his hands. A few guards opened the door and came inside. Matsumoto gestured in the air and said, “Get him to the doctor. Then, hand him over to the boys in the back room. If there's anything left, dump it like the rest.”
The guards nodded, evidently familiar with this procedure. They dragged Hara's moaning body out of the room carefully. The iron-faced man returned to his ballet-dancer poise, and was motionless once more.
“Thank you, Tadashi-kun. Quick as ever, I see.” Matsumoto said.
Tadashi bowed deeply, and returned to his position. Then, Hayato turned to Naoki.
“So, Yoshida-kun tells me that you want to set up your own supply of Spirit Dust to sell.”
“Yes, Matsumoto-sama.”
“He's a good guy, Matsumoto-sama. Really good, I tell you.” Satoru insisted. “You've heard of all the stuff he's done.”
“I know what's he done.” Matsumoto said dismissively while waving his hand. He squinted at Naoki.
“Hmph. I think you'll be a good seller. Go to Flare. It's a nightclub on fifth street. Ask for Shoji-san. He'll tell you more.” Matsumoto clapped, and a small army of people came into the room to clear the table. Koga bowed once more with Yoshida, and the two of them stood up to leave.
As they were leaving, Yoshida practically ran to keep up with Naoki's long strides and fast pace. “Hey, that went well, huh? I told you that I'd put in some good words for you.”
Naoki nodded. “Thank you, Satoru.” His mind was elsewhere though. Matsumoto had made his decision long before Naoki came to lunch. He had been granted permission far before that. And choosing to interrogate Hara was no accident. No, he meant to expose Hara that day, at that moment, in Naoki's presence. It was meant to be a warning.

Hayato Matsumoto dismissed all of his guards except for the ever present Tadashi. Next, he cleared his throat and calmly said, “You may come out now.”
On command, a shimmering patch of air seemed to appear in the back of the room. Then, a hand emerged out of the air and made a tearing motion, shattering the illusion as a tall, refined woman appeared from the spot. Dressed in casual street clothes, she leaned back against the wall with her arms folded.
“The one on the side was barely noticeable. Probably picked up something from the Spirit Dust that he was selling. The other one though….he was somethin' bigger.” The woman squinted at a small electronic device in her hand. It buzzed and whirred, displaying various numbers and charts on its small screen.
“So, do you think Koga would be suitable for your organization?” Matsumoto asked.
“Maybe. He's certainly got the aptitude for it, if his reading was accurate. He's got some serious potential. We'll take a look. Maybe send him an offer if we like what we see.” The woman smiled, her eyes showing the inky black texture that they normally took when out of a disguise. “You've certainly showed us someone that the Insurgency would be…interested in, Matsumoto-sama.”
Hayato grinned. “I thought so.”

« Spirit Dust | Mainline Hub | Trip Hammer »


< Going Straight To Hell In A Lincoln Continental | DNM | I Double E >
- | - | -

OPERATION CANNERY ROW
Keeping Our Friends Close, Whether They Like It Or Not

As part of our continued effort to ensure our partners in SUSEOCT (Southern United States Extranormal Organization Cooperation Treaty) are maintaining integrity and the safety and security of the American populace are protected, the FBI's UIU maintains information regarding our operational partners in the extranormal containment sphere. Our efforts to monitor the SCP Foundation comprise Operation Cannery Row.
The following documents were recovered from the body of Foundation Agent John "Jallit" O'June, found dead with severe burns and apparent stab wounds on January 3, 2013 after a conflict with the Order of the Hyacinth in Cross City, Fla. O'June's remains were first discovered by a UIU agent embedded in the Dixie County Sheriff's Office. O'June's possessions and remains were returned to the SCP Foundation in accordance with SUSEOCT. Copies of available documents were retained, reproduced below. Few readable pages remain.

"LMTF-352-ל Site Responsibility Overview"

"Region 352-ל Hume Readings: 0700 January 3, 2014"

+ [TOP SECRET CLEARANCE AUTH REQUIRED]

- [TOP SECRET CLEARANCE AUTH ACCEPTED]

Original document, return to SCP Foundation pending clearance

- | - | -
< Going Straight To Hell In A Lincoln Continental | DNM | I Double E >


Felicia had always hated the snow. It was cold, it was wet, and she was one of the few kids who were actually upset when school was canceled. On top of all that, it rendered her already shoddy vehicle completely useless. So instead of driving down to her job interview, she had to walk. At least it wasn't that far- the employer, for whatever reason, had elected to hold it in the local diner. It seemed somewhat odd to her, but at only sixteen she considered it possible she just didn't know any better.
In fact, that was not the only thing that struck her as odd. She couldn't remember applying to a toy company. Her parents had both shrugged it off, saying one of them might have done it at some point. Even discarding that loose end, what would a toy company want with a sixteen-year-old girl with no work experience? But they had called her specifically, and a job was a job. Money was money.
She rounded the corner, still trudging through snow that went past her ankles. From there she could see the diner, a small beacon of warmth and color in the freezing whiteness. With something akin to a dash she made her way inside, basking in the warmth as she shut the glass door.
A pair of men, one probably in his twenties and the other likely in his seventies, waved at her in unison from the spot in the corner of the diner. The younger had his brown hair spiked, and wore a three-piece suit with a black and red tie, the jacket unbuttoned to reveal a pinkish collared shirt. The older gentleman wore a suit that held just a hint of purple and a hat that looked like it belonged in a black-and-white photo.
"Felicia, so nice to finally meet you," the older one said. They shook only once, and then he gestured to the seat across from him and his companion. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss."
She unzipped and shrugged off her coat, setting it beside her when she sat. She made sure to sit up straight and maintain eye contact when they spoke.
"I'm Doctor Wondertainment," the gentleman said. "And this is Mister Forgetful."
They were in character, she supposed. They were a toy company after all, it made enough sense that the employees would try to have some fun with their jobs. But was the CEO of the company really conducting her interview?
"And who is she?" Mister Forgetful asked. Felicia had to respect how good he was at pretending to be completely clueless. Or forgetful, rather.
"This is Felicia."
Mister Forgetful withdrew a pen and pad from his pockets. "Can I write that down?"
"Not yet." He smiled at Felicia. "I have some questions for you before we really get into the thick of things."
"Alright. Like what?"
Doctor Wondertainment pulled up a briefcase from under the table. He popped it open and then rested both hands on the table, interlocking his fingers. The sleeves of his suit drew back far enough for Felicia to see a pair of scars wrapping all the way around his wrists.
"Simple legal things. Background check, what have you." He nodded to his cohort and extracted one of the papers from the briefcase. "Go ahead and write down her answers. Where were you born?"
"Portland, Maine." Mister Forgetful scribbled down her answer.
"You are the daughter of whom?"
"…Michael and Anita Huertes." More scribbles.
"And your full name?"
"Felicia Abigail Huertes."
"Where did you go to school? Elementary, middle, high school. Even preschool."
Felicia answered, Forgetful scribbled, and Wondertainment questioned, and she answered, and Forgetful scribbled. The process went on and on, the three of them tucked away in the corner of the diner. Far from prying eyes and listening ears, she gradually revealed the entirety of her being. The interview didn't stop when the waitress took their orders, and it continued as they ate.
Almost an hour had passed before the old man nodded, apparently content. She looked to the pile of notes that Mister Forgetful had been writing and cocked her head to get a look. Names, places, events. None of it looked even a little familiar. Why had he been writing all that? Why was she even here?
"Now, one last question and I think that will be it," Doctor Wondertainment said. He smiled and his eyes shone like distant stars. She felt herself becoming lost in them, the sheer vastness of their presence. The wonder of a million lights cascaded from a single point of boundless energy from deep within the old man, which spread out and touched the souls of thousands.1 Space seemed to shatter around him as he chuckled with the endless roar of a billion stars within an infinite cosmos.
He cleared his throat and asked, "Who are you?"
Her mind was empty. She tried to remember, which is quite difficult to do when one has nothing to remember. Her fingers drummed a beat on the magentabut used to be dull green table. She squeezed her eyes shut in thought and put her hands at her side, her right hand colliding with something furry. She looked down at the corgi that was occupying the space where Felicia's2 coat used to be looking up at her expectantly.
"Who am I, Jeremy?"
Jeremy barked back. Because dogs can talk
"Isabel is a pretty name. Let's go with that."
Anotherwhy are there two Jeremy barked.
"Oh hey, Jeremy. Didn't you see over there. I do kinda like Helga."
A third3 Jeremy barked.
"Are you sure my name's Anastasia? I kind of like Parvati, myself. The fifth, I think." that's not how names work4
A fourth corgi sprang up from under the table, barking excitedly.
"I don't know where you learned Spanish, Jeremy, but you're right. Why choose?"
Isabel Helga Anastasia Parvati Wondertainment V looked to her father? herself and grinned a big, wonderful grin. The world was better for it. The older Wondertainment gave her a small smile in return before coughing into a handkerchief. When he pulled the cloth away, rust 5clung to the kerchief. Mister Forgetful almost jumped out of his seat, but the Doctor just patted the collectible's shoulder.
"I'm getting old, Isabel," he explained. She could see it in his eyes, like a disease of the soul, eating away at the wonderlight within him. "I suppose you could say I used to work a dangerous job, and it's taking its toll. In more ways than one. Heheh."
"I bet I could help!" she offered. "I could cure you by becoming a doctor!"6
The Doctor's eyes sparked. "No, I think it's time to pass the torch. Put the company in the hands of someone… pure."
"Iiii'm not sure what you mean, Doc."
"Perhaps best that way. Ignorance is bliss, as they say."
She drew her lower lip to one side. "If you say so."
"And I do." He took more papers from the briefcase. "This has been a long time coming. I have spent a lot of time and effort to speed along your… growth. And when we get home we'll speed it along even more."
Isabel could see designs and notes for a series of collectibles, a group of people. Most of the documents contained the phrase 'LITTLE MISS HEIR PROJECT.' Notes detailing about removing the need to eat, making someone never age, how to make someone impossible to locate.
"Oh hey, it's me!" Mister Forgetful grabbed one of the papers. "Lookin' good. What's all this for, Doctor?"
"I want you to write down everything these documents say. Every last word. And then burn them, and your notes. Then give me this piece of paper."
Mister Forgetful looked between his creator and the papers, the scrap of paper clutched in his hands. "But then you'd forget, too."
Doctor Wondertainment smiled. "That's the idea. Wouldn't want to hinder progress once I'm senile, eh?"
"If you're sure…"
And Doctor Wondertainment was, and so Mister Forgetful did. The young man transcribed the entirety of the briefcase's contents. Previous identities, methods of conversion, types of transference, theories and ideas and concepts and mad scribbles made in the middle of the night by a god desperately fighting a losing battle. All recorded onto a scrap of paper and wiped from the minds of everyone but Wondertainment's greatest scribe. The waitress came and went again, not noticing the cha- what had always been that way.
When Isabel finished her fourth plate of chocolate pancakes Mister Forgetful set down his pen. "Okay, Doctor. I finished. Do I go ahead and burn it now?"
The old man raised his eyebrows. "Did I tell you to burn it?"
"Yes."
Laughter emanated from somewhere within the spacetime Wondertainment occupied. "Well then, I suppose you should burn it."
Mister Forgetful withdrew a lighter from his pocket. The Doctor had given it to him the day they had met, and told him it was very important. And so Mister Forgetful gathered his notes, piled the documents, and shoved them into the briefcase. He flicked the lighter on and lit it all ablaze, then shut the briefcase.
"So, why did you burn all that?" Isabel asked.
"It's a secret."
"Whaaaaaat? C'mon, tell me. I'm really good at keeping secrets. Like this one time, Jeremy and Jeremy accidentally broke Jeremy's favorite chew toy and I knew but I never told anybody!"
"I'm not allowed to tell anyone. The notes said so."
"Well… okay. I guess." Isabel drank from her glass of milk. "What's that?"
"Doctor Wondertainment told me to give this to him." He held out the scrap of paper. "I think it's important."
The old man took the paper and examined it for a moment. When Isabel tried snatching it from him he passed it over. They were instructions to drop Mister Forgetful off at one of the Foundation's sites. The director had probably ordered him, like he had the other Little Misters.
Isabel slammed the paper down onto the table. "Man, that guy is a great customer!"
"Isn't he? He'll be Mister Collector in no time." Doctor Wondertainment watched the table wobble through different forms and colors from the impact of Isabel smacking it. "You're going to be great, Isabel. The best of us yet, I think."
A cartoonishly large blush covered her face, turning her ears pink. "Aw, c'mon. You're just saying that."
"No, I mean it. Now, come on. It seems we have a Little Mister to deliver."

Footnotes
1. And shesheshe felt it, too. She always had, she had simply been human distracted.
2. Felicia doesn't exist anymore.
3. Just roll with it
4. It is now
5. The Doctor knew The Factory had changed him. Put a filter on him, choking him, tainting him. You could see it in some of the toys. Now they were within the company, and he could do nothing about it. But Isabel…
6. Isabel would go on to become a doctor, as doctorates can be inherited with enough imagination.


Aaron Howell sat quietly on his bed. While a normal eleven year old boy might be busy creating epic space battles with his toys, this one just did not have the energy. The late afternoon sun peered in from his window as he looked over the toys spread across the floor.
“You really need to clean up this mess,” the voice of his mom echoed in his head.
Without a sound, he got to his foot and proceeded to put all the toys away. When all was clean, he grabbed a picture from his nightstand with his right hand and hobbled back to his space on the bed.
The picture was of his mom, dad, and himself, standing at the gate of an amusement park. He was holding a foam sword in his left hand and a box of candy in the other. His dad held him on his shoulders, a captain's hat, eye patch, and goofy smile adorning his face. His mom wore a red skull-and-crossbones bandanna over her curly blond hair. A smile just as silly ran from ear to ear. Aaron placed the picture down. It had been taken almost two months ago.
Aaron then looked at himself in the mirror on his closet door. His short brown hair, usually spiked, now sat flat. A heavy piece of gauze covered his left eye socket. A layer of bandages covered the stumps at the end of his left forearm and left knee.
There had been a car accident. The doctors had told him at the hospital that they had done everything they could to keep him in as big a piece as possible. They told him that both he and his dad were lucky to be alive. His dad had emerged from the wreckage unscathed. His mom, however, had drawn the short straw. Aaron then reached down and threw the picture across the room, the frame bouncing off the mirror with a loud clack. The sound of voices in the nearby living room ceased, and was followed by the heavy thud of footsteps.
“Buddy?” Aaron could hear his father ask as he slowly entered the room. “What's going on in here?”
“Go away…” Aaron mumbled. His dad came in anyway, stopping to pick up the picture from the floor and putting it back on his nightstand before taking a seat at the end of the bed. Aaron pulled as far away from his dad as he could and curled into a little ball in the corner. He closed his eyes and waited for the intruder to leave.
“You have a visitor, Aaron,” Mr. Howell said with a sigh. “Do you think that, maybe, you'd like to meet her?”
Aaron looked over at his dad to see him staring at the floor. His eyes were red and puffy, and there were very dark rings underneath them.
“Okay…” he whispered. His father nodded and turned towards the door.
“You can come in now, Mrs. Saker.”
Aaron watched as an old woman carrying a large case entered from the hallway. She wore a dark blue business suit and her grey hair was tied back in a bun. Her rosy skin and soft smile reminded him of his grandma. She slowly knelt down until she was at his eye level and placed the case beside him on the bed.
“Hello Aaron,” she said in a warm voice. “My name is Mrs. Saker. It's very nice to meet you.” The old woman extended out her right hand. For a few moments, Aaron stared at it in silence. Eventually, his hand slowly reached out and accepted the hand shake.
“Are you a friend of my mom's?” he asked.
Mrs. Saker responded with a small chuckle before shaking her head.
“I'm afraid not,” she replied. “I work for a man named Anderson. Your uncle hired my boss to make you a very special gift, Aaron. I'm here today to give it to you. Would you like to see it?”
Aaron looked over at the case. He tilted his head sideways for a moment, imagining what it could be. After a few more seconds, he gave a small nod. Mrs. Saker then moved the case to the floor. With a fluid motion, she undid all the clips and opened the lid, turning it to Aaron with a warm smile. Sitting on the foam lining of the case was what appeared to be a hand, leg, and eye.
“Wow…”
Aaron's mouth fell open as he crawled to the edge of his bed to get a closer look. All three objects appeared to be made of some kind of plastic, with the hand and leg containing metal joints. Both the leg and hand were covered with some kind of white fabric. The eye looked perfectly smooth.
“Uncle James got me these?” Aaron asked, looking over to his dad.
“That's right buddy,” Mr. Howell said with a weak smile. “You're going to be good as new.”
Aaron returned his gaze to the pieces in front of him. His mouth continued to hang open for a few more moments until he managed to squeak, “Cool…”
“We can put them on right now, if you want to, Aaron,” Mrs. Saker cooed. “Would you like that?”
Aaron looked back over at his dad, who in turn gave him a small nod.
“Yes please!”
“Well then,” Mrs. Saker smiled, “Let's begin.”
Mrs. Saker had Aaron stretch out on his bed, and carefully removed the bandages from his arm, eye and leg. She laid each of the plastic pieces out on the bed and then sprayed down each area with something that burned.
“This is going to be very, very, painful at first, Aaron,” Mrs. Saker warned. “I'm afraid there is no getting around that. However, it will only last a few minutes. During that time, I want you to close your right eye and think of something that makes you very, very happy. Can you do that?”
Aaron nodded. He then held his right eye shut as tight as he could.
Sitting on his dad's shoulder, a foam pirate sword in one hand and a box of candy in the other. His dad wearing a captain's hat and eye patch. His mom alive, her hair done up in a red skull-and-crossbones bandanna.
“Integrate!” Mrs. Saker said sharply. He then felt thousands of tiny, red hot tendrils spread through his arm, leg, and eye socket. He let out a deafening scream as they burrowed deeper and deeper. He could feel them worming their way through him, each second more painful than the last. Finally they stopped moving. All the tendrils heated up even more, reaching such intensity Aaron thought he was going to catch on fire.
“Stop!” he shouted as he writhed on the bed. “Stop! Stop! Stop! STOP!”
Eventually his voice gave out, and Aaron faded into unconsciousness.

“It will take a few weeks for him to get used to the new parts,” Mrs. Saker sternly spoke to Aaron's father. “The white fabric on the new leg and hand is specially treated, and in about a month his skin should have completely grown over them. By that time the iris of his new eye should change to perfectly match his natural eye color. Your brother-in-law specifically requested that Aaron have as normal an experience as possible after receiving these prosthetics, so they're programmed to match the strength of his natural limbs. No super strength, no x-ray vision.”
Mrs. Saker then looked down at Aaron. His breathing was heavy as he slept soundly on his bed.
“I'm impressed that this went as well as it did,” Mrs. Saker continued. “Anderson usually doesn't integrate his systems with biological material. That being said, we are not outside of the realm of side effects…”
“Thank you so, so much,” Mr. Howell interrupted as he enthusiastically shook Mrs. Saker's hand. “You have no idea what this will mean to him.”
“Oh, I think I do Mr. Howell,” Mrs. Saker said as she quickly pulled her hand away. “But if anyone deserves your thanks, it would be your brother-in-law. From what I understand, this whole thing cost him a pretty penny.”
Mr. Howell nodded in understanding. Mrs. Saker handed him a large packet of papers.
“Please read these documents thoroughly,” she said. “If you have any questions, there are instructions on how to contact my employer. Don't try to find us. Things work out better if we come to you.”
Without another word, Mrs. Saker took her leave, vanishing into the night.
Mr. Howell then sat back down on Aaron's bed, and silently watched his chest rise and fall. After several minutes, he lightly clasped his son's new hand.
“Good as new.”

Four months following the integration, Aaron found himself sitting alone in the dark at the kitchen table, dressed in his pajamas. A steady stream of tears trickled from his right eye. He tightly gripped a bloody steak knife in his right hand as he sawed away at his left elbow.
“Get off…” Aaron said between whimpers of pain. “Get off…”
For every piece of flesh Aaron removed, the white fabric of the prosthetic would quickly spread to fill in the gap. This only caused Aaron to cut faster. The white fabric coated his arm at a matching pace.
“What the hell…” Aaron heard Mr. Howell's groggy voice coming from the hallway. The lights to the kitchen flicked. Aaron watched as his dad rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Mr. Howell then noticed the steak knife. His mouth fell open as his face simultaneously drained of color.
“Jesus-fucking-Christ!” his dad shouted as he swiftly crossed the kitchen and yanked the knife out of his hand. “Holy hell, what the fuck are you doing!?!”
Aaron could tell his dad was only now able to see the full extent of the damage. What had started as a prosthetic hand was now up to his left elbow. His new leg was now halfway up his thigh. Tendrils of white fabric surrounded his left eye. Aaron tried to pull away, but his dad held him tightly by the shoulders.
“Why?” Mr. Howell asked.
“Let me go!” Aaron shouted at the top of his lungs. He began to squirm and beat on his dad's chest. The grip did not yield.
“Aaron,” his dad yelled between the blows. “You're not going anywhere!”
“Let go!” Aaron shouted again. He bit down hard on his father's forearm. His dad let out a scream of pain and retaliated with a full blown slap across Aaron's face. The room then filled with silence.
“I'm so, so, sorry I did that, buddy,” Mr. Howell now held him tightly in a bear hug. “But what the hell are you doing? Why?”
Aaron remained still, his face buried into his dad's chest. He felt his dad run his fingers through his hair. He then sucked in a mighty breath and began to violently shake as he cried.
“I can't take these things any more, dad!” Aaron said between sobs. “Please take them off! They're not me!”
“What?”
“They don't feel like me! Every time I move them, or open my left eye, I can feel the tendrils inside me. They don't feel like me! Its like gluing a bunch of broken toys together, but I can't take them apart.”
Aaron held up his left arm.
“I cut, and I cut, and I cut, but they only get bigger! Dad, please get them off!”
Aaron felt his dad tighten the hug as he began to rock back and forth.
“Oh, buddy,” he said with a sigh, “We'll get this sorted out. I'll call Mrs. Saker right away. We'll get you good as new.”

Mr. Howell sat in his favorite armchair, phone in hand, as he dialed the number he found in Mrs. Saker's documents. The phone rang several times before switching over to what sounded like an old dial-up modem. The line then went silent.
“Mr. Howell?” said Mrs. Saker's voice from the other side, “How may I help you?
“We have a problem, Mrs. Saker,” Mr. Howell whispered.
“Oh… no…. What's the problem?”
“Aaron says that he can feel the hook-ups of the prosthetics inside him all the time,” Mr. Howell answered. “It's driving him insane. It's gotten so bad that I caught him trying to saw his own arm off. What's happening to my son? What the hell did you do to him?”
Mrs. Saker fell silent for a few moments. Howell could eventually hear her mumble “Oh… god…” under her breath.
“What is it? What's going on?”
“I'm sorry Mr. Howell,” Mrs. Saker began, “but your son's consciousness has rejected the prosthetics.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Normally after integration the prosthetics hard wire themselves into the nervous system,” Mrs. Saker explained. “At that point, the subject's consciousness is unable to differentiate the prosthetic from a natural limb. In Aaron's case, however, his consciousness actively recognizes the parts as foreign objects.”
“So… how do you fix it?”
Mrs. Saker fell silent again.
“We don't. The problem isn't the tech. The problem is Aaron.”
“Christ, can you at least remove them then?” Mr. Howell pleaded.
“I'm afraid not,” Mrs. Saker sighed. “The components are integrated to his nervous system. There is no way of physically removing them without causing extensive damage to the rest of Aaron.”
Mr. Howell sank deeper into his chair. He held the phone away from himself as he closed his eyes and did all in his power to keep from breaking down. As he sniveled he could hear footsteps in the hallway. Without even looking he could tell that Aaron was most likely peering into the room.
“Mr. Howell?” Mrs. Saker asked. Her voice was faint.
“So that's it then?” Mr. Howell asked.
“Not necessarily,” Mrs. Saker replied. “Given enough time, Aaron's body might eventually synch with the new components or…”
Mr. Howell hung up, allowing the phone to fall to the ground. He then placed his head in his hands.
“Good as new, Dad?”
Mr. Howell felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Aaron grasping him with his prosthetic. Mr. Howell gave a sharp nod.
“Yeah buddy,” he said. “Good as new.”

BEGIN | Anderson Robotics Hub | Series 1: Peregrine »


The Lion's Head Hotel was not a hotel. The word “hotel” typically evokes the mental image of one of those swanky, New York City high-rise hotels, with red velvet carpeting in the lobby and clean-shaven, handsome young bellboys. The Lion's Head had none of those things. Rather, it had a stuffed lion's head, which, with a Sphinx-like expression of purest serenity, overlooked the bar from its fixture on the wall, the Winchester which had brought it down mounted just below it.
More appropriately, the Lion's Head would be called an inn. In its supreme Victorian elegance, it stood proud at the corner of High Street and Jackson Avenue, at the very heart of the small town of Sloth's Pit. Despite the building's apparent dignity, however, the Lion's Head was infamous to the less-young residents of Sloth's Pit as one of those ghastly places where the youth would congregate. For, with three private rooms upstairs and readily available alcohol below, the Lion's Head was most accommodating for midnight dalliances.
If the Lion's Head were owned by a corporate franchisee, instead of the inexplicably rich Russian migrant who bought the building from Jackson Sloth's penniless grandson, there would have been board meetings. Conferences. Conferences with graphs. Graphs that, instead of indecipherable squiggles, would have featured thick red lines rising across steady gradients, demonstrating the hotel's rising profit margins through its century-and-a-bit of existence.
There would have been a board meeting last Thursday, as per what would have been tradition. It would have had a particularly impressive graph. But the exec, who would have stumbled through his presentation like a lame giraffe, would umm and ahh and nervously tug at his collar. He would keep his arms soldier-straight by his side, concealing the slowly spreading sweat patches, and pray that nobody noticed the cutoff date — June, Anno Domini 2014 — beyond which the data plunged terribly.

It was the… Something. The somethingth of June, and the Lion's Head was empty. The bastard had driven them off. The bastard had driven them all off. The men, which on most days circled the bar like so many vultures, had been scared away. He'd talked with the barman, who'd asserted that though they startled easily, the men would be back, and in greater numbers.
Bellincioni doubted that. Sitting in his booth in the furthest corner, sipping his vodka on the rocks dejectedly, he eyed the instigator with a malicious glare. Even now he was chatting up women by the bar! Bellincioni hated him. No, he despised him, him and his… perfection. It was impossible. Quite literally impossible. His hair was spun from the golden fleece itself, and his jawline was carved from pure granite. His nose sloped at a cute angle. His lips were full and luscious, and when they parted they revealed two glittering rows of white teeth. Every inch of him shone gold. The sun.
“So,” Bellincioni heard him say, as he flashed his perfect smile at the perky blonde he was seducing. "Your place or mine?”
The girl swooned, and Bellincioni hated him even more. The way he glided from one girl to the next, with the same easy confidence of a bird taking to wing… The sun. He had been the sun, at least. But then something awful had happened. Something terrible.
A localised anomaly.
Trapped in a perpetual darkness, the town of Sloth's Pit was freezing over. It was for this reason that even if the sun (which Bellincioni's superiors had designated SCP-4014, codename “Solar”) was not present at the bar, the Lion's Head would have remained empty. Everyone kept inside, rugged up in blankets like eskimos and doing stereotypical things like sipping hot chocolate and cuddling by fireplaces. Most businesses were closed. The Lion's Head, however, remained open, and Igor — the immigrant barman / proprietor — viciously beat anyone who claimed it was cold. “Bah!” he would exclaim, shooting out fat globs of saliva in disgust. “You think this is cold? In Siberia, we call this summer!”
By the bar, another girl had already swooned. Solar was working fast tonight. Far, far, far too fast. He'd already outstripped the initial projections.
Bellincioni swallowed down panic. “Reader,” he whispered, leaning forward across the table. Sitting opposite, Reader remained oblivious. A faint hint of urgency now. “Reader!”
No response.
Reader was Bellincioni's partner. At his insistence, they wore matching suits, despite Bellincioni's objections that tuxedos are not attire suitable for a bar setting. “It's a hotel,” Reader had rejoindered. “It's right there in the name.” Reader's figure and features, of course, lended themselves to suits; trim and tall, dark and handsome, suits were the name of Reader's game.
Yet something seemed… off, tonight. Under normal circumstances, Reader's features naturally assumed an expression of sly cockiness, the sort of easy, knowing arrogance of a man who knew he was attractive and made sure others did too. But Reader, in the place of that smug smirk which Bellincioni knew so well, had been positively glowing with admiration for the entire night, staring off towards the bar where Solar stood.
The tinkling of ice and glass.
"Christ!" Bellincioni exclaimed. Where an instant ago there was only empty space, there was now a tall, aproned man towering over Bellincioni, another two glasses of vodka on the rocks in his huge hands.
"You wanted more vodka," Igor said. His eyebrows were thick and dark, like stormclouds.
"You surprised me.”
One of those stormclouds arced. "In Motherland, you move silently. That or starve."
Bellincioni nodded, avoiding Igor's eyes. He pulled out a fistful of dollar notes from his pocket, and traded them for the glasses. "Keep the change," he said. Igor eyed the currency suspiciously, eyed Bellincioni suspiciously, and then the currency again, before turning his back and stalking away.
Bellincioni watched him go, and sighed with relief as he disappeared into one of the back rooms. He tipped the ice from the empty glass into his new vodka, and slid the other across the table toward Reader. Inexplicably, it escaped his notice. It simply did not register. Vacant as ever, his eyes looked only toward the bar, as they had the entire night.
For fuck's sake, thought Bellincioni. There was only one thing to do for it. It was time to take drastic action. Surreptitiously, he slinked his hand into his coat, and drew from the breastpocket his .44 Magnum.
I'm sorry, Reader.
He squeezed the trigger.
Bang.
“What the fuck, man?!” Reader cried, clutching his chest. The other patrons stared, frozen in horror.
“Oh, quit fussing,” Bellincioni said dismissively, both to Reader and the now silent hotel. He took the knife — the crocodile skinner — from his hidden trouser sheath, and handed it to him.
“This was a new suit,” Reader lamented. “I paid a lot of money for this suit. It was a good suit.” He took the knife and cut it open, slashing through the cashmere to reveal a silver bullet glinting inside an inch of kevlar.
“You were catatonic.”
“A bit higher and I would've been. Goddamnit, man. What the hell?” he said, dislodging the bullet with the tip of the knife and peering, shocked, into the quarter-sized hole where it had been buried.
“What do you mean, ‘what the hell'? What the hell's with you?"
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Bellincioni gestured wildly, toward the bar, toward Solar and toward the congregation which worshipped him. “He's stealing your thing, man! This is your turf! And you're just going to sit here and take it? Man up! You've got a gun, I've got a gun, we can take him!”
Reader frowned. “No.”
“You used to be a lion, man! You ruled the jungle! What happened to you?”
“Lions don't live in the jungle. That'd be a tiger.”
“Fine! You were a tiger! You were a king, with a whole pride of tigeresses! And you could have had any you wanted! What happened? You should be like, ‘grrrr', you should be grrring!” Bellincioni spluttered helplessly. “Do you understand what I'm saying, here? Why aren't you grring? This is unlike you, man. It's weird.”
Reader's frown deepened. “Ahhhh,” he said, taking the glass of vodka and draining it. He paused, gathered his thoughts, and continued. “I couldn't be upset, you know? It's like… a painter being jealous of Van Gogh, or a composer being jealous of Mozart.” Again, he looked with awe toward the bar. “That man is my Mozart. He's not just a pick-up artist; he's a pick-up artist.
“I could learn a lot from that man,” he said, and sighed.
Bellincioni almost choked on his vodka in alarm. “Reader! Man! He's not a he, he's an it; he's an anomaly. You can't idolize it! It endangers… everything!” He kneaded his eyes. “Look, I won't tell King. I won't recc you for a psych eval or anything — as long as you drop it, OK?”
Reader cocked an eyebrow. “You shot me.”
“Shut up.”
He did, and they sat in silence; Reader, meticulously analysing Solar's every move, Bellincioni, sipping his vodka on the rocks as dejectedly as he had been all evening. Eventually, his second glass of vodka was drained and joined the first, and in time the two crystalline cups were joined by a third and then a fourth. Reader lost interest in alcohol, claiming it would impair his scientific pursuits in seduction, and by midnight Bellincioni was as drunk as he had been at his sister's wedding, a night he did not remember and lead to him waking the next morning with a black eye and extensive bruising to his hands. His brother-in-law, too, sustained some spectacular injuries; the wedding photos were ruined. For some reason, he was never that friendly to Bellincioni after that night.
I must be drunk, Bellincioni realized as his brain staggered clumsily from one train of thought to the next.
He was, indeed, very drunk.

On most nights, Claudia avoided bars; being awkwardly hit on by strangers was not her idea of a good time. But, she noted with glee, this night was decidedly unlike most nights; for a start, the only thing that distinguished night from day nowadays was the moon. And, she knew, most people had voluntarily imprisoned themselves inside their own homes, not going out for fear of frostbite.
Secondly, Claudia needed a drink. It was a biological necessity; three stacks of paperwork, relating to the godforsaken Anomaly, had already clobbered her wits into submission. She needed to forget; forget about crossing the i's and dotting the t's, forget about stamping pointless forms demanding plutonium, ostensibly for “containment”, and forget about King's ludicrous schemes to cut costs.
To work a desk job at Site 87, Sloth's Pit, was to receive twice the workload of any other site in the Foundation — guaranteed. There were two essential factors which doomed Claudia to working from 6 to 8 each day, or longer: one, Sloth's Pit was a Nexus. She did not know what a Nexus was, but she knew what it meant; Sloth's Pit endured more anomalies than any other city in continental North America. And, she noted with a sour taste in her mouth, more anomalies meant more paperwork. At least, she reflected, the civilian population did not notice; they, apparently, were accustomed to it.
Two, Site 87 functioned not only as a Foundation base; it, inexplicably, was also a plastics factory. For the sake of keeping up the appearance of being S & C Plastics' biggest and only manufacturing plant, Site 87 made plastic. The stupidity of the entire affair was appalling. Underneath a fully operational plastics factory, which employed over 500 workers, hundreds of reality-threatening objects and entities were imprisoned; contained. What would happen in the case of a breach she hated to contemplate. All for the sake of keeping up a front company's appearance of existence.
She'd brought up the galling idiocy of it with Dr. King, the Site Director. He dismissed her concerns. He did not care; to him, it was no longer about saving the world. He'd gone full plastic king. Under his patronage, S & C plastics kept more than half of the population of Sloth's Pit employed, in one way or another. It was an achievement of which he was immensely proud; and it was not without its benefits. In the mindset of the townsfolk, he was not a mere plastic tycoon, he was a local celebrity on par with the Mayor, or Jackson Sloth's penniless grandson. He soaked in their adulation with a modest nod and a tip of his hat, as he gave speeches opening new libraries and schoolbuildings, projects which he'd funded out of his own pocket.
Hail King, King of Sloth's Pit!, she thought miserably, kicking a discarded can of soda off the curb, walking down Jackson Avenue. On all sides, closed shopfronts stared at her dismally. She hugged herself tighter. Ahead of her, she saw the dim outline of that regal hotel, silhouetted against the night. By the light of a flickering streetlamp, she could make out the sign which dangled above its doorway; the painted image of a golden, roaring lion, on a field of green.
The Lion's Head.
She needed a drink.

Reader sat in the booth in the farthest corner of the bar, alone. Bellincioni, perhaps a quarter of an hour ago, had staggered off to the restroom, never to return. It was, admittedly, somewhat concerning. He dismissed the mundane explanation of constipation; it was far more likely for Bellincioni to have fallen into the toilet bowl in his inebriation, and subsequently drowned. Or to have slipped on a piss-puddle and broken his head open on the floor tilings. But, Reader conceded, this was Sloth's Pit; it was even likelier still a freak wormhole had opened up beneath Bellincioni's feet and swallowed him whole.
He would go and check on the poor fellow, but, alas, it would endanger his observations. Oh, what a cruel mistress fate was!
Ding-a-ling-a-ling.
The sudden ringing of the entry bell pierced Reader's musings. He twisted in his seat, around to face the door.
Oh, fate is a cruel mistress indeed, he thought with a twinge of sadness.
Framed by the doorframe, sure enough, was the slim, delicate figure of Bellincioni's fancy; Reader's desk-jockey co-worker, Claudia.


Agent Meyers felt something cold on his thigh, rousing him enough to realize that he also had a headache. Meyers had been hungover more than once before and began to catalog the telltale signs… except he couldn't remember drinking anything last night. Flickering his eyes open slowly, the dimness of the room began to register in addition to the smell of dusty, stale air.
No, wait, he thought to himself. I didn't drink anything last night. Because I haven't gone to sleep and I'm not waking up at home. The vague memory of chasing someone down a side street played back in his head along with tumbling to the ground. Had he hit his head? His face felt hot and bruised, so he tried to move off of the pavement and figure things out.
Except he wasn't on the pavement. His arms and legs strained slightly against bonds placed in various locations around him and the situation became clearer - he was tied down to a chair.
"Good morning, Agent!" a cheerful woman's voice spoke from Meyers' right. Agent Meyers had not been with the Foundation very long - only half a year - but he understood the situation he was in now. He had been captured. Probably captured, he corrected himself. It wasn't impossible this was some manner of test or review by the Foundation. They were like that… and that, honestly, was one of the things he had enjoyed about the job.
"Meyers. A-26843," the Agent replied mechanically.
"Yes," the woman agreed enthusiastically. "Matthew Meyers. Matthew Johnathan Meyers, born March 23rd in 1982 to Susan and Walter. In Sugarland, Texas, United States of America." Footsteps echoed in the otherwise empty space as she approached. "You're exactly what we've been hoping for."
Agent Meyers looked around a little, barely moving his head. The light was dim enough that he wasn't entirely certain, but it seemed like they were in some small sized warehouse. Thin, probably aluminum siding, small amounts of supports and scaffolding. No shelving or storage units, so it prob-
His train of thought was interrupted by a light slap across the face. "That's all immaterial, Matthew. Can I call you Matthew?"
"Meyers. A-26843."
"Matt, then," the woman said, walking around and coming into full view.
Whoops. Not a woman, just a guy with an irregular voice. Must still be woozy. He wasn't even that small.
"Matt," the man began, crouching down and looking Agent Meyers in the eyes, "I have to thank you for what you're about to do for us."
Meeting the man's gaze, the Agent noticed what had caused him to wake up - a glass jar was pressed between his thighs. His slacks were still on, so the glass was cold enough to feel almost like ice even through the fabric. Perhaps it had come out of a freezer, but it was unlikely this place had electricity. Which meant they had to have-
The man flicked Agent Meyers on the nose. "Stop that," he chided. "Don't let your mind wander. I'm going to need you to focus on the here and now."
It occurred to Meyers that had been the second time this person had figured out what the Agent was thinking. Mind reader?
"Of a sort, yes," the man replied. "I think your Foundation would say I am certainly an anomaly."
"If you know who I work for, then I have to assume you're either prepared for their investigation of my whereabouts, or you're too stupid to anticipate it," Meyers observed casually.
"Trying to see if I'm a threat or not?" the man asked. He stood up and gave Meyers a calculating look. "I am quite a threat, Matt." The stranger's tone was just as casual as the Agent's. There was no boasting or bravado, just simple fact. "But not to you," he said, his jovial, high pitched tone returning. "Well, to you specifically yes. But not to the Foundation. Your employers and I will be working side by side for a little while, even if they don't yet realize it. Their methods and reach constantly keep me penned in, but I think I've found a way we can… get past all that."
"I doubt they're going to be very cooperative if they find out you've killed me," Meyers grunted. He felt his strength returning slowly and flexed a little against the bindings. Absolutely no give to them, must be zip ties or something like-
The man clapped his hands together loudly in front of Matthew's face. "Here!" he yelled. "Focus. Here." His hands clasped together and he motioned downward.
Meyers looked down to where the man's hands began to point. Down into the glass jar between his legs. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the stranger had also leaned forward to observe something.
Close enough, finally.
Agent Meyers stomped his left heel on the ground, releasing a short range directed burst of amnestics from the toe of his shoe. The vapor caught the other man in the face and he stumbled back, coughing. Meyers began to wiggle slightly, hoping perhaps the chair itself would break apart, giving him the range of motion to escape.
The stranger's coughs turned into a low chuckle and he made a tsking noise. "Foolish of me," he said, shaking his head. "I should have known better than to assume you were harmless, even now. You're a credit to your organization, you know." He rubbed his hands over his face, smearing off some of the residue from the gas. "I was surprised that your Foundation has such a wonder at their disposal," he continued, looking at the stuff on his hands. "We've been trying for years to do something like this, and there it was - right in my face." He chuckled. "Literally, even. One of your men sprayed me with it and I wasn't certain what was supposed to happen until they seemed surprised."
He walked back towards Meyers and smiled thinly. "But it's a trick, you see," he continued, trailing a finger down Meyers' face, starting at the top of his forehead. "It toys with the brain. The little grey meats get all confused. It doesn't unweave the tapestry, my friend, and I'm afraid some of us are just too firmly stitched together…
"… but not you."
Something in that final statement made the Agent's blood run a little cold.
"I'm not going to kill you, Matt," the Man said, gently rubbing the amnestics into Agent Meyers' nostrils and then forcing his other fingers into the man's mouth and pressing against his gums. "And your Foundation certainly will find you. Or rather, they'll find this place. You, on the other hand, are part of the experiment. So, again, I have to thank you. But I must also apologize. I need to stretch some boundaries, here. Explore some horizons. I'm not sure what will happen, though."
Agent Meyers felt the chemicals begin to take their toll. The man had rubbed the residue into his gums and nose. Smart. It'd be absorbed quicker that way. Meyers tried to recall his training – they put Agents up against the amnestics before, trying to tell them how to combat possible backfires of the stuff. He tried to focus on small, unimportant details. The man's voice….
Wait, Meyers thought to himself, it might actually be a woman. In a… she was wearing…
"So, that's where the Foundation comes in. They'll be here soon enough, doing what they do so well: containing whatever happens here. Not exactly a willing partner, not exactly an ideal scientific team-up, but… you use what you have, I suppose."
Wait! It was a woman, and not just any woman. His supervisor back at the Site. It was a test, after all. Wasn't it? He was trying to recall something. His mind said he was in trouble, still, but he couldn't remember why. Looking around, he realized he wasn't in a warehouse at all, but the administration offices he reported to. How did he not notice before? It felt hazy and indistinct, but that was probably part of whatever they had drugged him with initially. "I knew it," he said, not realizing how slurred his words were. "How'd I do?"
"Very well," the woman at the desk said, folding her hands in front of her and smiling pleasantly. "Now, if you would, Agent Meyers, please tell me about your first pet. It's part of the review. And do make sure to focus on the recorder in your lap."
Agent Meyers looked down where the glass jar… no, the recording device was. "Call me Matt," he said absently before beginning.