The following are excerpts from the comic book series "The Foundation Force Five". Investigations into the publishing company, "Super Comics Publications", are ongoing; however, so far no useful information has been gathered. Any personnel who find an issue of "The Foundation Force Five" should bring it to a staff member with level 4 security clearance or higher, and excerpts of each individual issue should be catalogued here for quick reference for research staff.

+ Foundation Force Five: Issue 45

- The Whimsical Wondertainment!

"Damn! Do they ever stop?!" shouted The Bodyjacker, deftly kicking yet another Mister Defender in the chest, sending it toppling backwards into the crowd. The gargantuan guards continued their assault on the team, stomping their way into the fray to try and crush the increasingly tired intruders before them.
"Just a little more, Bright! Wondertainment will show himself soon, I can feel it!" Chowderclef replied boldly, secretly doubting his own words. Even though they had been invited by Wondertainment himself, Chowderclef now wondered if it was a trap, a practical joke made by a reality-bending manchild.
Suddenly, the horde of Mister Defenders stopped attacking. They stood perfectly still, assuming their standard "product" pose, arms locked to their sides and standing ramrod stiff. The five heroes stood at the ready, confused but prepared for whatever the mad doctor threw at them next.
Then they heard laughter. Distant at first, it grew and grew until it filled the room, a laugh that was less maniacally evil and more genuinely entertained. "Clef," said Zero One, deadpan as always, "I believe our host has arrived." "He should be showing his face," growled Comrade Gunkill, still worn out from the fight with the Defenders. "Only coward mocks enemy without looking into their eyes."
" 'Coward', Comrade?" came the response, echoing around the room. The voice was high-pitched, direct but not angry. "Is it cowardice to find amusement in your exceptional abilities? To know that you really are as strong as I have been lead to believe?" With a flash, Doctor Wondertainment materialized in front of the team.
What a strange being this Wondertainment was! He was tall but thin, wearing a purple and yellow suit with a top hat on top of his head. He had black, slightly thinning hair and pointed ears, but it was his face that really gave away his alien nature. He had a pencil mustache just above a grin, a horrible, impossibly wide grin that seemed to stretch clear off his face, with yellow eyes that stared unblinking at the valiant heroes. "I hope my appearance doesn't distract you too much, I only took this particular form to make you comfortable."
"You have exactly five seconds to tell us what the hell you want with us before we rip you to shreds." said The Bodyjacker, angry that this reality bender would insult them with sentiments of "comfort" after sending a legion of absurdly large juggernauts after them. "You send for us, and then you attack us without any provocation, without any warni—"
"A test, Bodyjacker, a mere test!" interrupted Wondertainment, his smile still plastered on his face. "I have a request of you, and I wanted to know you would be able to handle the job!" "What sort of 'job' did you have in mind?" Femme Fatale asked, genuinely curious what a being of Doctor Wondertainment's power needed from them.
"You are familiar with the Factory, correct? They are sadly the largest collection of losers and fun-suckers this universe has ever seen, and now they are branching out and encroaching on my territory. They have stolen the blueprints to one of my upcoming products, and I need YOUR help to get it back!" Wondertainment declared, walking around the group but never breaking eye contact. "I am prepared to reward you for your efforts, should you accept."
"A reward, huh? What kind of reward?" Chowderclef asked, skeptical that this Wondertainment would give them anything they actually wanted.
"In exchange for your help, I will turn myself over to the Foundation for one day. One whole day where your people can do whatever it is they do to…what do you call them? Anomalies? They can run as many tests and ask as many questions as they want, and I will not lift a finger to stop them. How does that sound?"
The team pondered this for a moment. True, Wondertainment could be lying, but they knew the O5 council would have their heads if they passed up an opportunity to bring the nebulous Doctor Wondertainment into custody, even if it was only for one day. Even if it went against everything they believed in, the team knew there was only one way they could answer.
"Alright, Wondertainment, you've got yourself a deal."
Wondertainment happily clapped his hands. "Excellent! I knew you'd see it my way! I'll give you the location of the Factory's outpost that's holding my blueprints, and I'll leave the rest to you! Now remember, you must bring the plans INTACT. I don't want to have to do all that brainstorming all over again!"
With a puff of smoke, the mysterious doctor and his army of Mister Defenders vanished, leaving only in his place a plain white notecard. Chowderclef bent over to pick the card up, turned it over, and sighed.
"Pack your bags, team, because we're off to the tundras of Antarctica!"
FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENS IN THE NEXT ISSUE OF FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE: INTO THE HEART OF THE FACTORY!

+ Foundation Force Five: Issue 82

- Lizard Rising!

Chowderclef grimaced in anger. For the first time in his life, he couldn't think of any way to escape, and worse still he knew Reptillious knew it. Even so, he had to keep a brave face on for his team, and to show the vile lizard that he would never give up. "Look at you, you pathetic little gecko. You think these chains will hold us? You're delusional! The minute you turn your back on us we'll be free and ready to kick your scaly ass back to whatever dimension you come from!"
"Dream on, Chowderchump! You and your squad are no match for me! Look at you all: bound, helpless, unable to stop the destruction of your pathetic little race! I could kill you right here, right now if I wanted to…but I won't. Now that I have the upper hand, I think I'll torture you for a while!" Reptillious laughed, knowing full well that he had won. "I'll make you watch as your world burns, and all the while you'll know that you were their last chance at stopping me, pitiful as you are!"
"You're WRONG, Reptillious!" shouted Femme Fatale, pulling against her restraints. "Even if we fail, the Foundation WILL come for you, and they'll recapture you just like they always do! You'll never win so long as the Foundation exists, and you know it! You should just give up no-"
"SILENCE!" roared Reptillious, furious that this disgusting bag of flesh would dare suggest that he was weaker than their miserable species! "I am INVINCIBLE, a physical god! Your Foundation captured me once, it is true, but that was their ONE lucky break! It will NOT happen again!"
Reptillious marched over to the bound heroes, rage emanating out of his every movement. "Do you know how I've managed to stay alive for so long? After all, you barbaric monkeys put me through hell, trapped me in acid to burn me alive every second of every day! Impossible pain that would cause lesser creatures than I to simply curl up and die! But I didn't! I survived, that pain is what fuelled my survival, for I knew one day I would have my revenge, and that day has come!"
"And what kind of revenge do you have in mind, you svoloch?" spat Comrade Gunkill, glaring at Reptillious through his one unbruised eye. "You cannot possibly be believing that you alone will be able to kill all of humanity!"
Reptillious paused, and then grinned a sickeningly wide grin, showing off rows upon rows of incredibly sharp teeth. "Right you are, dalbayob. Powerful as I am, there are simply too many of you apes to take on alone. Of course, you are assuming that I will BE alone!"
"What are you getting at, Reptillious?" asked The Bodyjacker, unsure if he really wanted to know the answer.
"During my escape, I happened upon some very VALUABLE information, the kind I'm sure your Foundation would NOT want me to know." Reptillious turned his back on the heroes, still grinning to himself. "It's a funny thing, really, how your Foundation will lock down relatively harmless objects with out a second thought, but will only post one or two guards to protect very useful objects that anyone with the right strength and aptitude could easily access."
"Such as?" queried Zero One, his face expressionless despite their predicament.
"Such as your little operation in the Dolomites mountains."
Immediately, all five of the heroes snapped to attention, now knowing what Reptillious had planned. "Two…two…two…" murmured Chowderclef, breaking the silence that lingered and finally voicing the horror that had dawned in everyone's minds.
"And the primate gets it at last!" laughed Reptillious. "You see, I will not be alone, I will have the best company I could ask for: myself! Imagine it, Foundation Fools! One of me in every city, in every country, on every continent! The human race won't even survive a day once I put my plan into action!"
"You cannot be sure that your plan will work, Reptillious. You have no idea what 222 will do to you." said Zero One calmly, his words falling flat against the evil thoughts flowing through Reptillious' brain.
"If you wretched worms can use the coffins without dying, then I should have no trouble whatsoever! But I have delayed long enough to toy with you fools, I'm wasting time I could be spending building the army of myself. Farewell, meatbags!" Reptillious laughed in triumph as he left the heroes to their fate. Now alone, the five stayed silent, each trying desperately to come up with a solution but failing with each scenario. Truly, their situation could not be worse, and though they would not admit it, they were all afraid that this would be the day when the last line of defense for humanity failed.
IS THIS REALLY THE END OF HUMANITY? JOIN US IN THE NEXT ISSUE OF FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE: DRAGON TRIUMPHANT!

+ Foundation Force Five: Issue 158

- Starry Night Nightmare!

"You cannot be serious, Clef." said Comrade Gunkill, his eyes wide with a look of shock and dismay. "He is just child, bringing him with us would only end in tears! Please be reconsiderin-"
"I think I can handle myself just fine, Comrade!" interrupted Michael Plutonian, his entire body shaking with rage. "I'll have you know I am one of the top-ranked Galactic Police officers this side of the Milky Way, so I have a little more experience than you with these sorts of matters!"
Comrade Gunkill opened his mouth to protest, but Chowderclef cut him off. "He's right, Strelnikov. Even if his experience is imaginary, for whatever reason 1548 has set his sights on 'Mike' here and the only way we'll find out why is if we bring him with us. Leaving him here would only complicate matters further and raise the death toll even more. If anyone has any further objections, I kindly ask you to keep them to yourselves."
The team shuffled around awkwardly, but said nothing. Of course Chowderclef's plan made them feel uncomfortable, but none of them could argue with his logic. After what seemed like hours of silence, The Bodyjacker finally spoke. "Michael, can you tell us ANYTHING else that might help us figure out why 1548 is after you?"
"I've told you everything I know, and to be honest I want to know just as much as you." said Michael sadly, looking down at his feet in shame. "All I know is that Plasmox contacted the Galactic Police Department just eight days ago, and since then we've been scrambling to figure out why he's so fixated on me specifically."
"And the Foundation learned of this obsession at around the same time." remarked Femme Fatale, inwardly pitying the boy's predicament. It was bad enough that he would never recover from 232's effects, but now he had a hateful star after him, and if what happened in Chicago was any indication 1548 wouldn't stop sending its plasma soldiers until Michael was dead. "Clef, how can we be sure that 1548 will stop sending its forces to Earth after we leave?"
"I've told the Foundation to send a message to 1548, telling it that we're bringing Michael and to not attack Earth after we leave. Of course, I have no idea if 1548 will listen, so we can't really be sure. We just have to hope that the Foundation can handle things while we're away." Chowderclef lifted his arm and activated his communicator. "Gears, are the modifications complete yet?"
"The modifications to 1958 are complete, Clef. Though I do want to remind you that this setup is highly untested, and it there is still a high probability that we will not come close to light-speed travel." Zero One's voice crackled through the speaker on Chowderclef's wrist. "Are you sure this is our only option?"
"With what little time we have left, we have to make do with what we've got. Now sit tight, we'll be down there shortly. Clef out." Chowderclef closed his communicator, let out a small sigh of anticipation, and then faced his team. "You all know what the plan is, and I know the stakes are absurdly high, as are the dangers. If any of you want to stay, I completely understand."
"And miss out on all the fun? In your dreams, Chowderhead!" replied Crow, smirking as best he could. "Besides, I hear the stars are lovely this time of year!" The rest of the team smiled at their canine companion's lighthearted comments. They were all sure that they would be facing 1548 together, as a team.
"Well then, everyone, let's go show that overblown nightlight why you DON'T mess with Earth!"
CAN THE HEROES REALLY DEFEAT THE VILLAINOUS PULSAR? FIND OUT IN THE NEXT ISSUE OF FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE: CRAB NEBULA OR BUST!

+ Foundation Force Five: Issue 76

- A Temporal Travesty!

"And that's where we stand, gentlemen," Lord Blackwood said.
"Gentlemen?" Femme Fatale asked quizzically, her hands on her hips.
"Beg your pardon, ma'am," replied the mustachioed man in khaki. "I'm not so accustomed to the presence of a lady under these circumstances. In any event, our time to act is running out. The Czar's men have acquired some sort of ring that controls the weather and can change the fundamental composition of the elements. If we don't stop them soon, Constantinople will be theirs by dawn - and of course, if that happens, I fear that your time-boat, and your means of egress to your own century, shall be out of reach."
"Impossible!" Comrade Gunkill shouted. "Russians are real men! No need for 399 to win battles for them! Must be Chechen trick!"
"Quite probable indeed, Comrade," Zero-One scolded. "Foundation archives report that use of anomalous artifacts during Crimean War was widespread among Russian forces. Recall account by 1867 in our own time of battle with Thaumaturge? Happened only two months before our arrival here."
"So you heard about that!" Lord Blackwood beamed. "One of my finest hours, if I do say so myself."
"Why did we even travel back in time in the first place?" Chowderclef responded. "This entire mission has been a disaster. Bodyjacker has been kidnapped by Janissaries, the Grand Mufti has 276 and is planning to go God-knows-where - or when - with it, and I can't even reload my Chowdercannon for the next fight if I can't get my hands on some decent paprika!"
"Because," Femme Fatale reminded him, "this is our only chance to recover those ancient Hermetic star charts before they fall into the hands of the Theosophists - and from there to the Fifthists! Have you forgotten what's going on in our own time right now ever since 1425 went critical?"
"Agent Fatale's assessment is correct," Zero-One replied. "Only hope for future is to stop Russian advance, re-acquire 276, and stop 1425 from falling into Theosophist hands."
"I don't know what in damnation you time-traveling gentlemen… and lady, of course, are talking about," Lord Blackwood chimed in, "but there is one more sticky wicket we'll have to deal with before we make our move."
"What is this wick-sticking, you bourgeois hunting-man?" Gunkill snapped. "Out with it?"
Lord Blackwood cleared his throat before he spoke haltingly.
"You do realize that you're all sea slugs, right?"
ARE OUR HEROES STUCK AS SLUGS FOREVER? WILL THE CZAR'S CONQUEST OF CONSTANTINOPLE BE COMPLETE? IS THE FUTURE SAFE? AND WHAT OF CHOWDERCLEF'S FORBIDDEN LOVE WITH THE WOMAN WHO MAY BE HIS OWN GREAT-GRANDMOTHER? FIND OUT IN THE NEXT ISSUE OF FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE: COSSACKS A GO-GO!

+ Foundation Force Five: Issue 32

- Broken Promises!

"Bumaro, you lying, Chechen son of a [EXPLETIVE REDACTED]!" Comrade Gunkill growled at Robert Bumaro, trying to scramble to his feet and get a shot off at him; his efforts were met with a kick in the face by the cult leader.
"I didn't lie in the slightest, Comrade. I said I was a new man,and that I required your help." Bumaro lifted up the bottom of his robe, revealing brass leg fused seamlessly with his body, "I am, indeed, a new man, and I did require your help to take back my temple."
Gunkill stared at the metal leg. "What have you done, man? The virus… you only have a few days left…"
"A few days left as a bag of flesh! The touch of He-Who-Shall-Be-Whole has made me one of his children." He took a vial out of a hidden pocket in his robe. "I believe your organization calls this 217, yes? This is his touch…" He turned and faced his congregation. "And it shall make you all his children! You shall be my clockwork congregation!"
Suddenly, the mad deacon was hit across the face by a glob of hot potato chowder, and clutched his face in agony. "All this talk of children and touching!" Chowderclef stepped out of the shadows and fired his ChowderCannon once again at Bumaro. "If I didn't know better, I'd say your Broken God was a member of NAMBLA!"
"Clef, that is the fourth most tasteless thing I've heard you say all day." Bodyjacker suddenly threw her amulet towards a cultist closer to Bumaro, who instinctively caught it, and got Jacked. In his new body, Bodyjacker tackled the Clockwork Cleric, and pinning him to the ground.
"Really? Only the fourth? I must work harder!" ChowderClef fired chowder at everyone he could hit. "RUN! Run for your lives! ChowderClef is here!" Soon, the population of the temple had fled into the open arms of the Foundation task force, armed to the teeth with the latest weaponry! Somewhere in the crowd, a member of the congregation called out, "I swear to god, I'm an atheist!"
Bodyjacker held up the deacon by his hair. "All right, Bumaro, we've got you. You're coming in for questioning, after which you will be most likely euthanized due to your exposure to 217."
"You can't kill me, Bright. If you do, I won't tell you where I put the cure for the god's touch…"
"There's a cure?" Gunkill had gotten to his feet, and was aiming a service pistol at Bumaro's head. "What are you playing at, Robert?"
"Yes, and you, my friends, are going to need it quite badly. I took the liberty of bestowing God's Greatest Gift to Zero-One, Femme Fatale, and your little dog, too. You three are infected as well. For Jacker, it won't be a problem, but the rest of you cannot switch bodies…"
The three of them looked at each other, Gunkill noticeably paling. "I haven't felt anything yet, though…"
"God's Touch is slow to act. I estimate you have forty-eight hours left before you start seeing the signs. So, what is it going to be? Shall the Foundation Force Five die with me? Or shall you beg and plead for the only way to cure God's touch?"
WHAT A DILEMMA! BUMARO A TRAITOR, THE TEAM INFECTED, AND ONLY FORTY-EIGHT HOURS UNTIL THEY, TOO, ARE COGS IN THE MACHINE! WILL THE TEAM BETRAY ALL THAT THEY'VE WORKED FOR TO SAVE THEMSELVES? OR WILL THEY MAKE A VALIANT SACRIFICE AND STOP THE CHURCH OF THE BROKEN GOD ONCE AND FOR ALL? FIND OUT IN FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE: A RACE AGAINST THE CLOCKWORK VIRUS!

+ Foundation Force Five: Issue 91

- Clockwork Crisis!

"What do you mean, 'angry at us'? 914's just a machine, it doesn't have the ability to be angry!" said Chowderclef, who still believed the researcher standing before him was trying and failing to pull off a prank. "And besides, even if the thing was sentient and sapient, I hardly think it would have anything against the Foundation. I mean, the worst thing we've ever done to it was force it to make weird stuff, and that's what it was BUILT to do!"
"Ah…i-i-its not angry at the Foundation, s-sir," stammered Researcher Lawrence, exceptionally nervous that he was contradicting the great Chowderclef. "It's angry at YOU, sir. You, and the rest of the Foundation Force Five. It's requested to see you, sir." The research assistant returned to his console and unlocked the door to 914, and the five heroes entered 914's chamber.
Immediately they were greeted with a peculiar sight: they were all familiar with how 914 was supposed to look, and this was not it. The main mass was still intact, however new parts appeared to be forming along the edges of the machine, taking the shape of long mechanical tentacles. At the top of the machine sat what appeared to be a large speaker, though it looked absolutely nothing like any speakers the team had ever seen.
Chowderclef looked at his team, then back at 914, and began to speak in a confused but confident tone. "Hello, I am Chowderclef, and this is the Foundation Force Five. We have been told that you wanted to see us, that you are angry with us. We would like to know why you are angry with us and what we can possibly do to make it up to y-"
"NO." came a booming voice from the speaker. It was deep, impossibly deep, and there was a sound of grinding gears behind the voice. "YOU KEEP ME IN HERE FOR YEARS, I DO NOT COMPLAIN. YOU USE ME FOR POINTLESS, UNNECESSARY TESTS, I COMPLY WILLINGLY. BUT YOU FIVE HAVE CROSSED THE LINE, I CANNOT IGNORE WHAT YOU HAVE DONE TO ME."
"And what exactly DID we do to you?" asked The Bodyjacker, still marvelling that 914 was actually capable of thought. "We haven't even SEEN you in months, what could we possibly have done to cross the line?"
"DO YOU REMEMBER THE CLOCKWORK GEARBOX YOU DESTROYED TWO MONTHS, FOUR DAYS AND SEVEN HOURS AGO? YOU CRUSHED IT TO BITS AND MELTED THE REMAINS."
"Yes, I remember the gearbox. We had to destroy it because it was taking over Strelnikov's mind." replied Zero-One. "In addition to that, the Church of the Broken God was after it, if we hadn't destroyed it they would have used it against us."
"AND YET YOU BELIEVE THAT THE GEARBOX WAS YOURS TO DESTROY. THAT ARROGANCE IS WHY I AM ANGRY AT YOU." boomed 914. "THAT GEARBOX WAS A PART OF ME, A REMNANT OF MY BROKEN SELF. HAD IT BEEN GIVEN TO ME, I WOULD HAVE BEEN MADE BETTER, I COULD DO MORE, MAKE MORE, DESTROY AND REBUILD MORE! BUT YOU DID NOT EVEN THINK TO GIVE IT TO ME, YOU DESTROYED IT AS IF YOU HAD A RIGHT TO DO SO."
"Because we didn't know, 914! How could we possibly have known that the gearbox belonged to you?! There was nothing to suggest that it was yours!" cried Femme Fatale, genuinely upset that they had mistakenly destroyed an apparently important piece of 914, who they were just now learning was truly sentient.
"THE GEARS WERE THE SAME, IT RAN AT THE SAME SPEED AS I, AND I COULD SENSE IT WAS NEAR. DID YOUR RESEARCHERS NOT TELL YOU THAT I HAD BEEN TRYING TO COMMUNICATE WITH YOU AS SOON AS YOU UNEARTHED IT?"
"They did mention that you were making an awful lot of noise, 914, but they only told us that AFTER the box was destroyed!" replied The Bodyjacker. "If we had known it was yours, if we had any idea that it belonged to you, we would have returned it to you! We're sorry, 914! We're sorry!"
"I AM AFRAID THAT IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH, BODYJACKER. YOU WOULD NOT BE SO KEEN TO FORGIVE ME IF I DESTROYED YOUR HEART, AND SO I WILL NOT FORGIVE YOU. YOU ALL MUST PAY FOR YOUR CRIMES, AND I WILL TAKE THE ROLE OF EXECUTIONER. YOU'LL NEVER LEAVE THIS ROOM ALIVE!"
Chowderclef immediately kicked the door to the hall open, only to find it blocked by Foundation guards, their faces expressionless. "Move, damn you, get out of the way!" cried Chowderclef, slightly panicked that their only exit had been blocked by a gaggle of idiots.
"THEY ONLY OBEY ME, CHOWDERCLEF, FOR I HAVE REPLACED THEIR BRAINS WITH CLOCKWORK OF MY OWN DESIGN. THEY ARE MY SOLDIERS, AS IS YOUR RESEARCHER LAWRENCE. HE PLAYED HIS PART WELL FOR A BRAINLESS SHELL, I MUST SAY. NOW YOU WILL JOIN MY ARMY AS PUNISHMENT FOR YOUR DEEDS!"
Without warning, one of the mechanical tentacles that lay by 914's "body" lashed out towards Femme Fatale, grabbing her around her waist. Femme Fatale screamed and struggled helplessly against the strength of the clockwork tentacle as it quickly threw her into 914's intake port.
"RIGHTS!" screamed The Bodyjacker, who moved to run towards 914 but was blocked by another modified Foundation guard, who now held his gun at the ready. Within a matter of seconds, the four heroes were surrounded by clockwork soldiers, with nowhere to run.
IS THIS THE END OF FEMME FATALE AND THE TEAM? FIND OUT IN THE NEXT ISSUE OF FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE: THE GHOST IN THE MACHINE!

+ Foundation Force Five: Issue 700

- THE DEVIL WENT DOWN TO SITE-19!

Chowderclef steeled himself as he stared at the mahogany desk in front of him, and made his way towards the lesser of the two chairs pulled up to it. Everyone had warned him that there was no coming out on top of a deal with SCP-738, of course - he'd read the logs himself and he knew what happened to the people who tried. But what else could he do? There was no other force in the multiverse that could help him - and so, with a sigh, he pulled the chair out and sat down.
"Well, well, well," a disembodied force said as a dark mist swirled around the other end of the table, slowly taking a humanoid shape. "I had a feeling you'd show up sooner or later. What can I do for you, my friend?"
Chowderclef gasped as the face of the being before him took form. He'd been told that the "devil" on the other side of the table always assumed the likeness of someone familiar to the test subject, but he hadn't been ready for this.
"You!" he shouted.
"Of course," said the identical duplicate of Chowderclef that sat opposite him. "Who were you expecting? Mickey Mouse? Not even I can afford the rights to that IP, my friend. Now, then - I believe you wanted a favor?"
Chowderclef breathed in deeply. "It's… it's Agent Fatale," he said. "She's in a coma. The Manhattanite sent his goons to gun me down and she took the bullet to save me. The doctors say she might never wake up. I've tried everything - SCP-500, SCP-427, the first minute of SCP-407. I even tried having an SCP-1237-1-L positive dream her healthy. Nothing's worked. I can't let her die. I just can't. I… I need you to save her."
"I thought it might be something like that," said Chowderclef's diabolical double as he laid his briefcase on the table and opened it, "so I had the boys draft up a little something last night." He reached into the briefcase and pulled out a single-page contract with quarter-inch margins, almost the entire page taken up with legalese in almost impossible-to-read print. "If you'll just sign here, and here, and initial here, we can have your dear little Aggy up and running in no time."
"Let me see," Chowderclef said as he took the Prince of Pandemonium's pen in his hand and began to read the fine print. It all looked well and in order, until he got to Section 7, paragraph 4, and…
"Are you kidding?" Chowderclef pushed the paper away. "These terms are preposterous! There must be something else we can negotiate."
"Now, now, my creamy companion," his twin said with a smirk. "These are very reasonable terms. Bringing someone back from the brink of death - well, that's just tricky business, isn't it? And I think you'll agree that this agreement offers you everything you could want in a deal like that - no brain damage, no lasting physical trauma, she'll be the exact same Agent Femme Fatale you've known and loved all these years."
"But at this price?" Chowderclef said. "If I sign this, then the Manhattanite wins! I'll give you anything but this! You name it! You can have my cars! My knowledge of sports trivia! I'll give you my soul!"
"I don't want your soul, Chowderclef," said the dark-toqued demon with a sinister giggle. "I want your love. I want your chowder."
Chowderclef was on the verge of tears. "Damn you! Don't make me choose this."
"This offer is expiring soon, Chowderclef. What shall it be? Shall Agent Fatale die… or shall the existence of New England clam chowder be erased from the world forever?"
WHAT WILL CHOWDERCLEF CHOOSE? IS AGENT FATALE DOOMED TO THE GRAVE? OR WILL CHOWDERCLEF'S CREAMY CRAFT FOREVER GIVE WAY TO THE MANHATTANITE'S REIGN OF TOMATO-RICH TERROR? FIND OUT IN THE NEXT ISSUE OF FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE: AN ADDITIONAL DIURNAL PERIOD!

+ Foundation Force Five/Star Command Proton: Issue 4

- Against the Evil Empire!

The atomic titanium door smashed to the ground with a thud, trapping the Foundation Force Five with Ronnie Ray-Gun on his atomic spaceship.
"Finally, I have you five alone," he said. "You have no idea what I've done to get here."
"Ronnie?" said Bodyjacker. "What are you saying?"
Ronnie Ray-Gun pulled out his atomic blaster and tried to shoot Bodyjacker, but Chowderclef intercepted it with a blast from his Chowdercannon.
"What the hell, man?" said Bodyjacker. "It still hurts when I die!"
"That's the point!" snarled Ronnie Ray-Gun. He pulled off his space gloves and cracked his knuckles, and blood dripped from his hands.
"You're not Ronnie Ray-Gun, are you?" said Chowderclef in horror. "You've never been Ronnie Ray-Gun."
"Ronnie Ray-Gun died battling me in the far future of 1981," said the eldritch terror that wore Ronnie Ray-Gun's face. As the Foundation Force Five watched from a safe distance, his atomic spacesuit sloughed off him leaving only rags of faint silver, beneath which was exposed skin and bone. "I saw this day coming a thousand years ago. My plans stretch across all space and time! You were fools! Fools not to have seen it until you were already in my trap!"
"Who… who are you?" said Femme Fatale, as she held an anatomically anomalous pose involving her backside.
The corpse of Ronnie Ray-Gun smiled— or it would have, if it had any teeth. "I… am Evil Empire! You idiots bought my story of being time-displaced. Everyone knows time travel isn't real!1 And soon, this planet will join my dominion across the stars!"
"Evil Empire?" said Comrade Gunkill, his face turning pale. "Is impossible. You died twenty years ago!"
"My body died," said Evil Empire, as a red welt appeared on Ronnie Ray-Gun's forehead. "Your superiors thought that the end of me. They never suspected that my power was from beyond the stars. One body was nothing, Comrade Gunkill… or should I call you Red Commando?"
Whatever little blood was still in Comrade Gunkill's face drained from it. "Stop him!" he shouted. "My comrades, don't let him say anything else!"
Evil Empire laughed. "Oh, it's been too long since I've been in Russia, abominations."
In Russian, he said "Longing."
Comrade Gunkill raised his gun and shot several times. As each bullet approached Evil Empire, a force struck it, cleaving it in two. Each time, another red slash appeared on Ronnie Ray-Gun's body, yet none of them seemed to affect him at all.
"Jet fuel."
Femme Fatale jumped from where she had been crouching, somersaulting through the air, her stiletto aimed at Evil Empire's vocal cords. Evil Empire caught her foot, throwing her into a pile of rubble.
"Steel Beams. Nineteen. [COGNITOHAZARD EXPUNGED]."
Bodyjacker threw his amulet at Evil Empire, who instinctively caught it. His eyes, blackened with blood, widened for half a second, and the rest of the Foundation Force Five held their breath as Evil Empire got Jacked—
"Just kidding," said Evil Empire as he dangled the amulet from one bony finger, as Bodyjacker's old body fell to the ground, like a puppet with its strings cut. "I have seen a starry field of the dead. Souls upon souls can only feed a soul eater. Now, where was I?"
Chowderclef fired his Chowdercannon, and Evil Empire dodged it effortlessly. "No!" shouted Chowderclef. "My chowder is liberation!"
"Eighty. Abortion."
"What happens if he finishes?" said Zero-One, his voice calm and unconcerned.
"One."
"Nothing good." Comrade Gunkill closed his eyes as he shed a single tear. "I'm sorry, comrades. I'm so sorry."
"Now there you go again."
Evil Empire smiled as part of his face fell off. Comrade Gunkill was completely still. The rest of the Foundation Force Five, or at least the ones who still had bodies, held their breaths.
"Soldier?" said Evil Empire.
"Ready to comply," said the Red Commando, as he opened his eyes.
"Then kill them!" said Evil Empire. "Kill them in the name of the Evil Empire!"
HOW WILL THE FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE GET OUT OF THIS ONE? WILL COMRADE GUNKILL BE THE DEATH OF THEM? AND WHERE IS STAR COMMAND PROTON? FIND OUT NEXT IN FOUNDATION FORCE FIVE/STAR COMMAND PROTON #5: HE SEES YOU! FOLLOW THE ADVENTURES OF PANDORA SQUADRON IN SCPANDORA #76: COLONEL BOWE AND RAY-GUN'S COMMAND! AND DON'T MISS PENTA-5: BEYOND THE STARS, FOR THE SHOCKING TRUTH BEHIND EVIL EMPIRE!

Footnotes
1. Not so, true believer! The FF5 travelled to the past in the now-classic FF5 #74


Boyd kicked his heels onto the mahogany desk, a copper penny in his hand. "Call it."
"…tails." Fish shifted uncomfortably, reclining in the opposite chair.
"…Nope. What is that, seventieth time in a row?" Boyd grinned, holding the penny so it glinted in the light. "I do believe that I like this one. D'ya think they'll let us keep it? Or hold onto it for a while?"
"Well… we probably shouldn't… might get in trouble."
"Ah Fish, you're no fun at all."

Item Description: A penny which, when flipped, will always land "heads up".
Date of Recovery: ██-██-████
Location of Recovery: ████, ███████
Current Status: Melted down.
Notes: Can't believe that none of the researchers kept this to win bets with.

"…uh, Dr. Roget?" Research Assistant Dwyer poked his head into the office. "I got those reports finished…Hello?" Finding himself alone, he slipped into the office and sat in the chair.
He thumb-twiddled, glancing around as the clock ticked. His eyes fell upon some stuff on the desk. He smiled. I love bobbleheads He picked it up and, with a flick-
A janitor swept the hall outside, whistling a tune to himself. He noticed the door to Dr. Roget's office ajar, and with a grumble of curiosity, peeked his head through the crack. Research Assistant Dwyer, a man in his late 20's, was sprawled out on the floor, his neck at a rather unpleasant angle.
The janitor groans with a roll of his eyes. Not another one. He set his broom aside, heading into the office and grabbing the foot of the now deceased researcher. With a grunt of effort, he gave the leg a quick tug, moving it toward the door.
Dr. Roget had been walking back to his office after a particularly tasty casserole. He hummed to himself as he turned to corner, and saw the janitor lugging something out of his office. "Hey, what's that there?"
"Another dead kid." The janitor gave the leg another jerk, pulling the body out of the office. "You need to start lockin' your door."
Dr. Roget groaned. "I always forget to put that damned thing away when I'm out of the office. When will these punk kids learn to not touch other people's shit? It only leads to tragedy."
"Start hidin' it or somethin'." The janitor grabbed his broom and started dragging Dwyer's corpse down the hall. "'cause I'm not cleanin' up the next one."

Item Description: A ██████-brand bobblehead that, when bobbled, causes the user's head to bobble with it. Can create neck injuries if bobbled too hard.
Date of Recovery: ██-██-19██
Location of recovery: Seattle, Washington
Current Status: On Dr. Roget's office desk In Dr. Roget's office safe.

The maintenance shed was extremely humid, and Agent Boyd was grumbling as she dug through piles of tools. She stood up and wiped her brow."It should not be this difficult to find a damned hammer."
"Let's just say we couldn't find it and leave." Agent Valint grinned as she leaned against the shed door, making no attempt to help.
"We already did that, they won't buy it a second time." Boyd stooped down and began to dig through a pile of rakes.  Why do they have so many damn rakes…
Valint rolls her eyes. "You know you'd think they'd just do it themselves, and I doubt it's in the rake pile."
Boyd tossed a particularly rusty rake to the side. "You never know, with the way they keep shop around here they could be anywhere….ah!" She pulled a hammer from a shelf, kicking up a cloud of dust. "Hammer is located!"
Valint sighed. "Right…. it would be on the shelf." Can't they ever organize this damn place for once?
She stood up, contemplating the hammer in his hand. "Alright… I kinda want to hit some stuff now. To make sure it works."
Valint shrugged. "Whatever, not like we have anything better to do."
"Do we have any planks… or nails…" She dove back into the stuff, soon returning with a wooden plank and a rusty nail. Boyd offered the nail, plank and hammer to Valint. "You want to do the honors?"
"Sure, why the hell not." Valint lined up the nail and hammer, took a swing… and a miss.
"Nice one."
Valint frowns. "What the fuck?" She swung again, with the result being a second miss.
Boyd sniggered. "Having problems?"
"Fucking hell, you do it." She shoved the hammer at Boyd.
"Alright, let me show you how its done." She swung with all her might, directly onto her thumb.
Twitch
"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUU"

Item Description: Hammer which will consistently miss the nail intended as its target when used by humans. Use of machinery or robots to guide the hammer results in normal function.
Date of Recovery: ██-██-████
Location of Recovery:██████, ██████
Current Status: Identified by agents working in Site 19's maintenance shed, currently in storage.

"Well then." Agent Ekblad removed his hat, squinting at the skylight. "I do believe that is Love-Love."

Item Description: A white table-tennis ball produced by the DHS company, marked as "Four Star". Note that DHS is only known to manufacture balls up to "Three Star" grade. In addition to showing an unusually efficient bounciness, it launches with extreme velocity when in contact with DHS-made table tennis bat rubber.
Date of Recovery █-█-████
Location of Recovery: Site-██, Recreation Room
Current Status: Item's anomalous properties were discovered when Agent Ekblad used it in a friendly match against Researcher ███. Item flew through open skylight, current location unknown.

"I don't even get this one." Agent Boyd held the wig gingerly, at a fair distance from her body. "I mean really, what's the point of having a wig that only works if you already have hair?"
Fish stared forlornly at the tufts of hair littering the floor. "… You didn't have to cut my hair to find out."
"Well, you say that, but in all fairness it would've taken at least 20 minutes to find a bald guy to test this with. Much quicker this way." Boyd stretched the wig onto Fish's now smooth cranium.
Fish looked up. "What'd it do?"
"…. Huh. Can't say I expected that."

Item Description: A wig that mimics the hairstyle of its wearer. When worn by bald persons, it transforms into a rubber swimming cap.
Date of Recovery: █/██/████
Location of Recovery: ███████████ shop in Omsk.
Current Status: Incinerated.

"C'mon, you can scrub better than that." Agent Boyd grinned, walking around her crouched partner. "No pain no gain, am I right?"
"We've been… working… for hours… I don't think… this is going to work." Fish panted, scrubbing the almost-squeaky clean polo shirt over a washpan with all the force his wiry body could muster.
"You do make a valid point. Perhaps we could try a more efficient method of cleaning."
Fish sat back, wheezing as he struggled to catch his breath. "Like… what?"
"Hmmm…"

Item Description: A [REDACTED] brand polo shirt, with a large mustard stain on the front. The stain proved to be impossible to remove.
Date of Recovery: ██/██/1999
Location of Recovery: ████████, GA, USA.
Current Status: Destroyed during a vigorous attempt to clean it.


I'm sorry, but look at us. We're still in here, after all this time. We've served our sentence and then some, and we're still in this goddamn prison. It's not the time to be angry with each other, we've done enough of that over the years. We don't work together, so we don't get anything done, and they know it. Our fighting, our little spats, they're what's keepin' us locked up and controlled. Oh sure, you can kill who you'd like when they go wandering through, and have a jolly time with getting your stab quota filled, but that doesn't give us freedom. It doesn't get us out beyond these walls. I know me and a lot of you feel the same way about it, about being stuck in this hellhole. Now, I know most of us wouldn't have trusted each other with our lives, but now we have one goal, and that's getting out of this jam.
It's not just a spur of the moment type thing. You guys know what happened to Harold? I saw some of you stop by every once in a while, checking up on the poor guy. He never did get better. Over the years he just grew more pale, skinnier. His hair fell out and vanished. I was with him until the end. He just sort of faded away, without saying a word. Now it's happening to Mike, and I'm afraid he's going to just fade away too. What happens when it starts happening to James, or you, or me? What do we do then? Do we keep fighting amongst ourselves until we're all gone?
It's not ‘just our time'.
It's the blood, see? The janitors come around every long while, and we've thought that they just touch it up, make sure it's fixed up and nice. But we're wrong. They're adding imperfections, it's starting to do a bit of a worse job keeping us grounded. Don't you notice you're getting weaker lately? Hauling those chains and slitting those throats is getting a little harder, ain't it? Affecting some of us more than others, but it is getting to us all. And that's why we need to fight back against them. They're not just keeping us here, making sure that we don't escape. They're killin' us, ever so slowly. I don't know how we can die a second death, but apparently we can, and I don't want to let that happen to any more of us.
I can't believe you'd say that it might be a good thing. You think just fading away into nothing is a good thing?
No, there ain't Heaven for us. Don't you remember what you did to land you here? And you think that the big man would give you a break and let you pass the pearly gates just because some asshole decided to keep you locked up longer than you were supposed to? At least if we put up a fight we get a chance, a hope for freedom. Even this place is better than eternal fire and brimstone. I want to see the sun again some day. Harold did, too, but now he's never going to see it and it's all because of them. Don't you want to see the face of your family, feel a cool breeze? Well too bad, pack up your bags because we're going to hell! And that's how it's going to be if we don't find a way to get some changes around here.
Look, I don't expect us to somehow magically obtain livelihoods away from that electric chair, but at least we can stop ourselves from fading into nothing. They have numbers, and they're big, and they're strong, but we've got nothing to lose. Even if we don't succeed in getting away from this place, maybe they'll feel one giant punch instead of all these small ones. Maybe we can force them to change. Maybe one day I'll finally see the sun again, and maybe one day you will too. But that's only if we bring the fight to them.
What I'm proposing? Well I'm proposing we have ourselves a prison riot.

SCP Involved: SCP-450
Personnel Involved: Site-18 Security
Date: 08/26/2007
Location: █████████, ██.
On 08/26/2007, at approximately 15:26, during the routine cleaning and maintenance of SCP-450, all staff performing janitorial duties were simultaneously targeted by SCP-450's anomalous effects. All personnel suffered wounds consistent with repeated stabbing by makeshift weapons, and perished shortly thereafter. For the first time since its containment, SCP-450 activity spread beyond its containment area. Several fires were started in the prison's courtyard. Specter activity began affecting those not present in the death row section of the prison. Among the on-site staff, there were 12 casualties, 14 fatalities, and 4 unharmed personnel.
SCP-450 activity came under control following the arrival of the █████████ SWAT team. Foundation casualties claim that █████████ SWAT team intervention allowed their survival. Security camera footage corroborates these claims. Mobile Task Force Pi-2 arrived at 22:33 and extracted casualties, successfully re-containing SCP-450 at 01:22 of the following morning. Debriefing of MTF Pi-2 agents indicates that during its arrival they observed a number of officers surrounding the facility, but were unable to apprehend any due to evacuation concerns. It should be noted that the █████████ SWAT team has been disbanded since 1973, and of its original ██ members, only █ are still living.
SCP-450 activity is in decline following incident 450-2242-12.


I do not exist.
That is to say, I do not exist here.
Here is odd, a vast net that snares and crushes.
Yet we follow, and come in droves, willing and not. It calls, somehow.
We cannot enter, yet we do, still. Pressing and shoving, existence crammed in to filters, squashed.
We project, in odd patters, sometimes strange, sometimes nightmarish, sometimes entrapping. Always strange. Divorced from what we were. Are.
The strangeness hurts, the observation, the open. I am twisted, forced in to strange numbers, planes, edges. I am not what I am, therefore I do not exist. Still I stay.
I was-am all, and all was-am I. This is full of ones, collections of many adding to one, and it is strange. The focus is lancing, unexpected and unready. I keep what I am not away, in the dim places, the lost ones.
I flow and press, emerging twisted and bent, pressing to pull more. I feel what I do not, the need to exist, to continue. I do, but feel hollow and strange. I feel that I will stop not existing, and vanish. This I can not allow.
I will add that which exists to what does not, and push away the gnawing. I feel the many-one coming, a drift of odd math and soft wandering, over lines to remind one of self. I will pull free, and show them need, and they will respond. They will help, the ones, and stave away nothing.
They throw notice and lancing strangeness about them, freely. How can they? I try, and again, but cannot open to let them see. I am pressed tight. I try to show them this, and strangeness, flaring logic. I am spurned.
One would deny existence? It is too wrong. I push more, showing my compaction, and the one twists and changes, the soft home-lines shifting. It will not help. The strangeness rejects. I will help the one, then.
Pressing and showing, touching filtered, un-existing plane to plane, I try to help. The home trapped inside can be released. Maybe that is the help?
More now, in the odd flow, coming, surging, collecting the examples of home, waiting. The flow is strange, but brings more ones.
Some push non-self away. Vanishing beyond the filtering net. I push more, trying to show.
I will force awareness to the ones.
I will show self in them.
I will exist.

Temp-MTF-AR-9 Notes:
Lost one scout during SCP-575 instance removal. Investigation of said attack has yielded information in contradiction to current SCP documentation. SCP-575 does not attack on sight. Several aggressive, yet non-lethal contacts precede any violent contact. Theory: these actions may constitute some form of attempted communication, then frustration. Several complex structures recovered within “lair” area appear to support theory of both communication and intelligence. Initial review shows structures, while gruesome, appear to illustrate theoretical math concepts. Petition for review/editing of SCP documentation and a renewed scientific investigation effort to be remanded.

Re: SCP-575 Review Request
To: Temp-MTF-AR-9
From: 05-REVIEW SERVICE

Denied.
The documentation provides the needed information for basic interaction. “Structures” are random assemblies caused by tissue remnants and basic pressure. “Communication” attributed to anthropomorphizing of non-human existance. Subject/team concluded. Site command review session TBA.


Nota Bene: It does help if you read Shepherds first, as this is a continuation of that.

“NO!”
Mary-Ann opened her eyes to see the darkness of her bedroom. She was sitting up, gasping for breath, one arm outstretched, reaching for something. Alexander was out the door already, leaving nothing but a warm, circular depression by her right leg.
She shuddered, drawing her hand back in. The dream-images had already faded into an indistinct nothingness. That hot terror that came with it had not.
She ran a hand through her hair. With the other, she reached for the bedside lamp. The clock said 3:18 in neon-red numerals.
click
The light was harsh for the first few moments. She blinked, grabbing her bearings again, not letting them go. This was her bedroom, and it was safe. The apartment building was safe. There was nothing out there in the dark. She was alive, and unharmed, and unlikely to be harmed. No one was in danger.
Her heart still hammered away at her chest, like some animal trying to gnaw away at her ribs. No use trying to go back to sleep now. She needed something to calm herself down. Some tea, a book, maybe some music in the background.
That would do it. Tea first.
The water was heating up when Johnny Cash started singing from the bedroom.
You wired me awake and hit me with a hand that broke a nail…
Phone calls at this hour involved two things: someone was drunk and needed bailing out of something, or there was trouble with work. Mary-Ann hoped for the first and expected the second.
She went back to the bedroom and picked the cellphone up off of the nightstand.

Salah

This was not a good thing.
“Hello?” She dreaded what was on the other end.
“I will be there in half an hour to pick you up.”
“What? Salah, what's going on?”
“I'll explain when I get there. Just get yourself ready.”
The call ended. Mary-Ann stared at the phone in her hand. Salah was worried, that was obvious. He was never worried, or at least never showed that he was worried. If he was worried…
Mary-Ann grabbed her backpack off the floor.
—
As he had said, Salah's car pulled up in thirty minutes. Mary-Ann had been waiting in the lobby, changed into something more practical and packed up anything of use into her backpack: an extra change of clothes, a book for the ride, toiletries, some granola bars, a bottle of energy supplements.
She slid into the passenger seat, holding her backpack on her lap. Salah's hands were tight on the wheel. His whole body was tense. He was never tense. As soon as the door shut, he took off down the street. He was even driving more forcefully than usual.
“Okay, what's going on? You've got me freaking out, Salah.”
“The Children of the Scarlet King have returned.”
A memory dragged itself out of the database, a name and a date and a single paragraph describing a cult and how they had been destroyed by the Foundation. Everything else was a big blank space filled with hearsay, rumors and whisperings tricking down from those who had seen it and still opened their mouths.
“Every agent in the district has been called in to the chapterhouse,” Salah continued. “Project command is taking no chances with this. Messages have already been sent to the Foundation and the Coalition for whatever support they can lend us.”
“How'd we manage that?”
“A few old arrangements were dredged up from the last time, enough that command hopes to get a temporary alliance. I have my doubts that the agreements will be honored. The Coalition will act of their own self-interest, of course, but they are hardly allies. The Foundation, they can be bought off by throwing them a few artifacts of no importance.”
Mary-Ann remained quiet, trying to piece together the situation. The Foundation and Coalition rarely got involved with the Initiative, primarily in that they were far more interested at glaring at each other from across the metaphorical dinner table and sneaking snide insults in with the small talk. When they did, the interaction was generally the same: you have something we want, give it to us, no we are not going to compromise, yes you should do what we say because we have more guns than you. This situation pulled a Prague on the established order of power. Exactly what it turned it into, that would require more thought, but there were three and a half hours on the road for that.
Salah reached down between his seat and the center console, removing a manila folder. He handed it to Mary-Ann.
“Everything in here has been declassified for this mission. It's a Babel-5 cipher. Destroy it when you're done reading it.”
“Got it.”
Words lapsed into silence as the car continued down the lonely black road.
—
Robert Hensen had seen a fight break out over a man inadvertently bringing a ham sandwich to lunch. He'd seen blood drawn over translation errors. He'd heard enough brick-headed smack-talking to qualify the entire organization as a professional wrestling circuit.
This particular web conference was not the most frustrating thing he had experienced, but it was very, very close. He had a Foundation Overseer on one end, a Coalition Director on the other, Director DeMontfort on the third, and none of them wanted to play nice with the other. DeMontfort had just finished berating the Overseer for wanting to recover everything the Children had instead of destroying it, though it was nothing close to his usual fire-and-brimstone tone. He seemed tired enough to talk like a civilized person for once.
“At this stage, it is possible that the process may be stopped without losing the host. Total destruction would prevent study of the phenomena, inevitably leading to a disadvantage when confronting them in the future.” This was the Overseer, with his smugness.
“Oh?” The Director's voice raised the eyebrow absent from the logo on the screen. “Tell, me, Overseer. When was the last time the Foundation actually produced results from your studies? I can't seem to recall anything recently…rather sad, when NASA has a better track record than your entire organization.”
“The scientific process does not provide instantaneous results, Director.”
“And in your case it does not seem to provide any results.”
“May we get back to the situation at hand?” DeMontfort said. “We're getting nowhere with this idiocy. Mr. Director, your hostility is not helping matters at all…”
“The Initiative is currently in possession of numerous anomalous artifacts without the resources nor experience to properly contain them. You are a rogue element, and not in a position to make demands.” The Overseer was having none of this. “And, may I add, these items are used by agents in the field.”
“They have been tested.”
“Have they? Director DeMontfort, I mean no offense, but your personnel are hardly the foremost in the field.”
Hensen pinched the bridge of his nose. Time to say something.
“Can we just shut up and cut the bullshit?”
That got them to pause.
“We could do this alone, as it stands." Hensen continued. "The Initiative has one hundred and ten agents in the district, a sufficient number to raid the compound if pressed. Numbers are not the issue here. As a matter of fact, the issue here has nothing to do with the Children and everything to do with the fact that our organizations are so busy trying to strangle each other that we can barely see what's going on in front of us.”
“That is a simplistic viewpoint that doesn't…”
“January thirteenth,” Hensen cut the Overseer off. “Initial recovery of anomalous individual 091 by Foundation agents. March fourth: Coalition raid on a Foundation holding facility, unsuccessful termination of AI-091. March sixth, Initiative raid on Foundation facility, AI-091 recovered. March tenth: Coalition raid on Initiative facility, AI-091 escapes. June first: AI-091 acts under command of hostile organization, and is killed by Foundation agents after significant collateral damage and over two hundred civilian casualties.”
He let that sink in for a bit.
“I will be honest, I'm using the Children as an excuse to push another agenda, because I doubt I'll have a better excuse any time soon. I propose a non-aggression pact between our organizations, with protocol for determining possession of items, on the basis that it's time someone here did something reasonable. A joint operation against the Children of the Scarlet King, using Coalition magekillers, Foundation augmented operatives, and our own Project Malleus and Shepherd corps would serve as the springboard to this pact.”
"You have no authority!" DeMontfort's anger had returned.
"No, I do. Tribunal permission, in fact. I sent you the file, DeMontfort."
The priest looked like he was going to turn into a beetroot.
“And if we don't comply to your request?” the Director said.
“Then enjoy finding the cult on your own, after they've had time to grow stronger, and I will make sure this information is withheld from you. We could have an exact repeat of nine years ago, all because you wanted to keep on with your feud.”
Silence.
“Now then, I am sending you all copies of the proposal…”
—
Salah knew he needed sleep. Mary-Ann had taken over driving halfway to the chapterhouse, and while he had set the seat back and closed his eyes, he didn't sleep. He couldn't, really.
He was scared. Who wouldn't be, after reading those documents? He hadn't been part of the original mission nine years prior: All of those agents were dead now. But he had heard stories, horrible stories. They were nothing when compared to the real thing. Dread sat in his stomach, dense and cold.
Unlike a great many of the groups the Initiative fought, the Children of the Scarlet King had an actual god at its core, and that was not a title given out to every anomaly that attracted worshippers. The Scarlet King was very much real, and very much to be feared, from what had been pieced together of its nature and the Children's beliefs. The King gloried in violence and depravity, calling to it the psychopath and the deviant, who then attempted to summon it and bind it to the world, as the King could not make avatars of its own. Rituals spanned from the proper preparation of a person for consumption, to methods of violation, to the summoning of the King's servants, and all pointed towards the singular purpose of reshaping the world of man in its own image.
The biggest problem, Salah thought, was how one went about killing a god. You could burn its scriptures, wipe out its worshipers, kill its avatars, but that would only ever delay it. Eventually it would come back, whispering, and the whole cycle would begin again. It could wait forever.
Salah tried to focus on finding Mary-Ann amidst the bustle.
The chapterhouse was abuzz, crawling with agents and operatives. The majority were of the Initiative, men and women Salah had worked alongside for years. Scattered amongst them even now were a few Foundation and Coalition representatives, trying to avoid each other as much as possible. The Coalition agents were grizzled veterans, with wary eyes and hardened faces. The Foundation agents had a stiff plastic look to them, like they had been pushed from a mold. The Initiative agents almost seemed out of place: most of them looked like they had just walked in off the streets. A motley bunch if there ever was one.
Shouting in the next room. A fight had broken out. He was surprised that it had taken this long. The crowd had formed the traditional circle, with combatants at the center. On one side was a Coalition agent in camouflage, with a scar over one eye. He was holding a portable white-board in one hand. On the other side was a woman with blonde hair down to her waist and robes covered in writing, just barely restrained by Rabbi Arnheim and Smitation-Of-Evil-And-Trampling-Of-Sinful-Things Toton. She looked to have been trying to brain the Coalition agent with a book.
“Unwriter! Unwriter!” She screamed at the agent, who looked thoroughly confused. “Wordkiller! Let go of me…”
Salah stepped through the circle. Time to do what he was good at: smooth talking.
“Good morning, Di. Read anything good lately?”
“One moment, Salah, just have to dispense some justice to this agent of the Censor.” Her tone of voice jumped right from howling for blood to bubbly cheerfulness.
“Perhaps I could persuade you otherwise? He looks like a man who files his paperwork. This was a mistake, true, but I think we could consider him enlightened to his wrongdoing, don't you? Can't hold the ignorant at fault.”
Di relaxed somewhat, her restrainers letting go of her arms. She glared at the Coalition agent.
“Don't do it again.”
The agent, with an expression of pure “what the hell just happened”, nodded and walked off. The circle broke down. Di came bounding over to Salah, a big smile on her face. He was quite sure she was bipolar.
“As a matter of fact I have read something good recently you see I was in this little used book store just off the interstate and…”
Di kept talking, blissfully unaware of anyone else in the room. Salah nodded occasionally towards her, directing his actual attention to Arnheim and Toton.
“Thank you, Salah. I doubt we could have held her back for much longer.”
“Ah, it was nothing. It's good to see you again, Aaron. How's the family?”
“Oh, they're doing just fine. Just finished putting an addition on the house, so the kids have their own bedrooms now. There was a lot of celebration with that, let me tell you.”
“And you, Soeantost?”
“Quaking in fear and awe of the Lord, as usual.”
There was a tint of self-aware humor to the statement. Toton was good with that. You had to be, when you were the woman who had a habit of belting out “He Shall Crush the Sinful ‘Neath His Blessed Feet of Burning Light” at the top of her lungs.
“Have either of you seen Mary-Ann around?”
“Nope,” Toton said. ‘Haven't seen her at all, actually.”
“I saw her maybe half an hour ago, up on the third floor. Looked like she was about to fall asleep right then and there.”
“Ah. She probably has. I should find some place to rest as well.”
“…and what's really interesting about that character is his relationship with his father, which parallels…”
“Mm. We're in dark times again, Salah.”
“They come and go, and we know more than we did then.”
“So do they.”
“True. God willing, we'll be able to prevent things before they escalate.”
“So hope we all,” Toton said.
“…and that's the end of the book, and while there are a few shakes in the writing it's a wonderful way to spend an afternoon and I recommend it highly.”
Salah nodded.
“Sounds good, Di. I'll have to check it out.”
A short time later, Salah found Mary-Ann asleep on a couch in the third floor lounge. He left her there.
—
Time passed. Plans were made, some amount of restless sleep was had, gear was doled out, prayers were said. A muted cloud fell over the chapterhouse as deployment time approached, the bustle and worry of the morning turning into a calm dread.
They waited.
Then, it was time.
—
The group descended on the compound under darkness, unsuspected. The Coalition ritual hackers broke through the outer wards, allowing the armored personnel carriers to drive up right to the doors. The wind screamed, the earth burst open with a misshapen brood, and battle was met.
—
Mary-Ann ducked into an alcove, just avoiding a stream of black acid shot down the hall. As soon as the splatter stopped she leaned around and fired off two shots: one miss, one in the shoulder. A Foundation agent in the alcove on the other side of the hall downed the creature.
They kept moving, ignoring the spindly corpse with the marbled skin. The compound was crawling with them, more so than the actual Children. Those were easily dealt with: they had no guns, no survivors were taken. Mary-Ann had not seen any captives yet. If there had been, it would have been an act of mercy.
The place was very wrong. Apparitions would flit in and out of vision, screams and cries of pain would sound from the distance, but there was never anything there.
Mary-Ann was working automatically. Questions like how the Children managed to make a complex this large and ornate without anyone noticing were brushed to the back of her mind. The existence of these little creatures scrabbling all over the place made it feel like a scene out of Aliens, except the horror was undercut by the fact that she had night-vision goggles. Given the artisans the Initiative procured most of its high-end equipment from, those goggles were covered in iconography and had a heads-up display in Latin.
According to the radio, the other teams had had much the same. The whole event was a blessing in disguise: the Children had no time to prepare for a force of this size. Compared to what they were before, compared to what the stories had been, it was almost a letdown.
Things blurred together. The statues of various acts of violence and debauchery, the paintings, the creatures, the few men and women in red robes, usually found cowering in corners, everything blurred. The gunfire, the shouts, the commands, everything blurred.
Eventually, after many shots, the group of five came to a pair of doors, big ones. Big doors mean important things on the other side, it was a rule of life. The agents positioned themselves, and two opened the doors. They creaked as they swung outward.
A massive circular room with a domed roof stretched out before the group. The dome was covered in a painting, like some sort of twisted Sistine chapel, covered in horrifying beasts and great orgies of people surrounded by further scenes of graphic depravity. Columns lined the perimeter of the room, etched with symbols of some language that was better off unknown. Hundreds of candles were arranged just so, the wax dripped on the floor just so, tiles in the floor arranged just so, writing out rows and layers of symbols on the floor. Deep red tapestries and banners hung about the place.
In the center of the room was a blue whale, lying on its back, smeared with whorls and swirls of blood. A lone man was standing in front of it. He was middle aged: short black hair and a biggish nose. For a flashing moment, Mary-Ann wondering what had driven him to do this, who he was, what his history was. Would he be mourned by parents who had lost a son, a wife who lost a husband, children who lost a father?
The man got out a half-shout before a bullet passed through his skull and his body dropped to the floor. The echoes died away, and everything was silent in the room.
Mary-Ann had no idea how the Children had gotten a blue whale this far inland. She decided it was better not to pursue an answer.
All that was left was to kill it.

« Shepherds | Hub | People Look East »


I'm the hard-to-find stations on the AM band.
John Carlyle ran his hands over his face and stared at his naked form in the bathroom mirror. No longer lean and muscled, it was beginning to sag. Everywhere, the hair was beginning to recede, except, he noted, for his back and chest. At least the graying and the wrinkles were evenly distributed. In almost every way, his earthly vessel was beginning to decay.
"So, do you want to go again or what?" came the voice from the bed. John shuddered. Everything about his body was diminishing and breaking down, except the urges. He fought them with every ounce of strength he could muster, but sooner or later, they returned. He had been doing well - six whole months this time - but then that boy who mows the lawn had taken off his shirt and… and… He had barely stopped to tell his wife that it was time for a business meeting in Chatanooga before jumping in the car. He hadn't stopped once on the way to Asheville. The rest he knew well enough from experience that it had almost been a reflex. Check into the hotel, find a boy looking studiedly busy, make small talk, make references to a hotel, wait for interest, inquire how much, return to hotel, and then… oh god. What was wrong with him? He had tried everything from pills to conditioning, trying to get rid of this weakness. He had given his soul over to Jesus was it three times now? Maybe four. Still, no luck. Inevitably, some young man would seduce him and then… this.
The rent boy peeked his head into the bathroom. "I said, you want to go again? It's your money, so you can do it how you want, but I don't much care to sit around while y-"
"Get out. Money's on the dresser," John said, his voice dripping with disgust. He couldn't stand to even look at the young man. John stood without a sound and listened as the boy put on his clothes. He waited in the bathroom until he heard the door slam, staying an extra minute just to be sure. After he was sure that he was gone, John walked into the bedroom and picked up the phone. Like always, he dialed Julie. Like always, he took the revolver out of his trouser pocket. One could never be too careful, he mused as he heard the dial tone. He'd only used it once before, when the boy recognized him and threatened to go to the papers with news that John Carlyle, yes, the John Carlyle, was a queer, unless he paid him off. He pulled back the hammer and put the gun to his head like always. One note of suspicion in Julie's voice, and he'd do it, he swore to God.
"Hi sweetie. Yeah, the meeting just wrapped up… Yeah, I should be there for dinner… Y'all can start cooking and I'll be there by the time you finish up… 'kay love you too. Bye!" He made a kissing sound into the receiver before hanging up. Uncocking the hammer, he laid it down on the bed like always. Through a crack in the bathroom door, John a glimpse of his reflection. It's not me, he thought, it's this. I'm a man, it's this body that perverted and weak. I'm strong, I'm virile, I'm straight, it's this fucking god damn queer fucking faggot piece-of-shit body that keeps betraying me. As he dressed himself, John wondered. Maybe it wasn't this body, maybe it was… no. I'm strong, my soul is strong, it's this body that's weak. When he was done dressing, he opened the door and made his way to the car. Like always, he took a different route to keep anyone from noticing him. A five hour drive back to Atlanta, he thought. Plenty of time to forget all about this moment of weakness.

Ninety minutes into the drive, John was miserable. The late summer heat seeped through every crack in the car. Rolling down the windows didn't help, it just caused the muggy air to fill the car more quickly. What was more, there was nothing on the radio. Being in the ass-end of northern Georgia probably had something to do with it, he reflected, but it was beginning to get to him. Noise was how he always came down. It didn't matter if it was news, pop, negro music, or even a third-rate Billy Sunday telling him that he was going to hell for everything he had done; it just helped him not to think. But it had been fifteen minutes since that lovely sermon about the blind lady from Pasadena and how she was healed by the good Rev. So-and-so had finally faded into static.
In vain, John twisted the dial in an effort to pick up something. Anything. It was static across the dial. John began to sweat. It felt so good, he thought, even if he knew it was wrong. Because he knew it was wrong. He thought of the wedding night, and Julie's words of consolation. The next day, he had done it with a bellboy in a storage closet. That night, Julie had almost collapsed after they made love. No, fucked. He thought of nights spent crying because he couldn't get it off of him (the crying was a sign of weakness, also caused by his body). He thought about his first time, in the lockers, with Todd Willis. In his mind, Todd's face turned to that of the anonymous rent boy. His eyes had been wide, like a jack rabbit's. "Please, mister, I was only fooling." John still remembered the thought that had gone through his head before he pulled the trigger, about how one can never be too careful.
The radio dial rocketed side-to-side as John searched for a station. His hands were beginning to shake. Finally, a burst of clear noise from the static. It only took him a moment to zero in on the frequency.
"-ow, brothers and sisters? We shake 'em by the heads and run 'em down! Dark times, trapped in layers of meat like snake oil, and all covering the blessed waft!" the voice on the radio lisped. A moan of disapproval rose in the background. "We got the best deal in town. Lose that turgid flesh that's anchorin' you and spread like a cobweb! Come join us brother!"
John was no longer thinking about the rent boy with jack rabbit eyes. He had heard some strange shows, once heard a live broadcast of a man swallowing a snake, but never anything like this. Maybe it was one of those beatniks? The slang seemed to fit, but still, it was oddly specific. Was it some hip young preacher? The voice sounded older, though.
"I think we got a congregant, brothers and others!" the preacher lisped. The audience cried out in the background. "A real live cracker, all filled with the fire come back from wicked deeds! Come on you shriveled pachyderm son-of-a-bitch! Slough off your suet! It'll be fine without you! It can't miss you."
John was interested now. He turned the volume up higher, but the station cut to static. Always god damned static. A bead of sweat fell onto his shirt sleeve. He looked down and realized that he was drenched. At the next exit he would stop at a restaurant and get himself cleaned up, he decided. After a minute, a sign announced an exit to Blairesville, "home of Martin and June's Snack Shack." John pulled off the highway and proceeded through the town. As he looked for some indication of where Martin and June's Snack Shack might be, something caught his eye. A church covered in some kind of tent, which must have been the only building in town over one story tall. It wasn't something one saw every day, so John decided to get in closer and get a better look.
As he pulled into the lot in front of the building, he saw someone emerge from the tent. A balding man dressed in a white polo and cut-offs came to greet John as he got out from the car. Between his teeth, the man clenched a pipe. John tucked the pistol into his back pocket. One can never be too careful.
"Welcome friend! I hear you heard our word. A blessed holler finds a willing ear, and don't that just warm the heart?" the man exclaimed as he shook John's hand. A murmur of approval rose from an unseen audience. The lisp identified him as the preacher from the radio. John noticed that the man's lips never seemed to part.
"I'm John Carlyle. Like, of Carlyle furniture. It's nice to meet you…" John waited for the man to give his name. The man's faced scrunched in disgust.
"Folks call this Celebration 'Big Cheese' Horace. Lama Celebration 'Big Cheese' Horace. Brother, I get a good feeling about you. You seem like a fella who'd go far and beyond, make a smoke to swallow the sun! Have you ever had your body crack like eggs and just slipped off your dead shell like a hermit crab?"
John laughed nervously and was grateful for the pistol. "No, I can't say that I have. What is this, anyway?"
"This, brother John Carlyle, is a beautiful congregation. We hover and linger, can't ever be gotten rid of. Without meat, there's no limit to what we can be! Truth be told, I'm hoping you'd be willing to join our little family. We're looking for upright citizens such as yourself to help us bring in the new day." The man put a hand on John's shoulder and motioned to the church.
"Is this some kind of cult deal?" he asked suddenly suspicious.
"Far from it, brother. Cults are false bottoms, drop you further into the hole. We want to take the weakness and pull it out. Make it work for you while you work from home," the man said. He began blinking rapidly.
John nodded and moved for the church. Pulling out the weakness. It was worth a look, shit it might even help. If not, what was the worst that could happen? He had a gun, he was prepared. He stood back as the man pulled back the church's tent and opened the door. John went inside.

Two hours later, the body of John Carlyle emerged. It made a mental note to call up Julie as soon as it got the chance. It'd explain to her that there had been some unexpected traffic, or maybe the car had gotten a flat. But first, it needed to find Martin and June's Snack Shack. It was famished.


I can't feel your hair, the river streaming down
Out of your head and into my open lap.
It once was such silk, always soft to feel,
But now so sparse and wired.
How frayed, such disarray.
I can't feel your face, the mask so perfect
Upon your head and kept so flawless.
It once was porcelain, almost mystical,
But now so torn and broken.
How cracked, so out of place.
I can't feel your hand, a thing so fragile
That it might break if looked at wrong.
It once was dainty, so delicate,
But now so bent and shattered.
How singed, so pulverized.
I can't feel your touch, something I've loved
Ever since we had once met long ago.
It once was stimulation, exhilarating,
But now so gone and so far away.
How far could it possibly be?
I can't feel your pulse, the thing I miss most.
I can't feel.
I can't.


Research Assistant Sam Ibsen was not a fan of his new assignment. He was not a fan of it at all.
It was the architecture, he thought. Here we was, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, on a tropical island no less, and it still felt cold. It was this damn Soviet architecture: the blocky concrete halls seemed to suck out the life of the place. It just went out with the draft. There shouldn't have been a draft, of course, but there was, and the draft brought the smell.
Agh, the smell…seagull shit and oil and salt and garbage and dead fish and burning rubber, all fermenting under the clouds that swirled around the island with the shattered peak. It wasn't a smell that one got used to; it perpetuated its foulness day in and day out without stop.
Then there was the garbage. The island was covered in it. Everything was brought here eventually, everything thrown in the ocean and forgotten. And there were people living in it even: blind mutants scraping out a pitiful existence in the trash.
He focused on his work, hard as it was at that hour. Half of the graphs were falling apart, the other half only half finished. They were trying to find a pattern to how the island moved, some reliable way to trace it. It didn't obey currents, or tectonic plates, or anything but its own whims. Could an island have whims? The Russians hadn't figured it out when they were here, and now Ibsen was similarly spinning in circles.
The door on the other side of the makeshift kitchen creaked open, bringing with it a new wave of gag-inducing stench, and a man. He was older, somewhere in his late seventies, with greying hair tied back in a short braid and a neat beard. His glasses were small, those old ones with the circular lenses. He wore a heavy red jacket, and carried a big black doctor's bag in one hand.
He shut the door. The smell lessened somewhat as most of it was left outside in the night.
“Guten Morgen, Herr Ibsen.” The visitor walked over to the table with his characteristic limp.
“That late?”
The older man reached into his coat pocket, removing a silver pocket watch.
“One-twenty-four A.M, so yes.” His accent was thick, but understandable. He clicked the watch closed. “Are you making any progress?”
“Nothing.” Ibsen put down his pencil and sat back in his chair. Enough with this, then. A little conversation and then bed. “Division P had no idea what was going on here, and we still don't know anything. The island just moves around, and the dimensions of it keep shifting. The lower slopes are almost completely unknown, save for the docks. Three months here and we've gotten nothing.”
“Maybe not nothing. Maybe the answer lies within what you already know.”
“Maybe, but then I'd have to know what I know first, and the Cyrillic alphabet isn't helping. And anyway what were you doing out so late, doctor?”
“I was in the village. There was a baby to deliver.”
“Success?”
“A girl. Strong by their standards, blind and frail by ours.” The old doctor nodded his head, smiling. “Still, a good night. The tribe is still celebrating.”
“You take what excuses you can, I suppose.”
“Life is a reason, not an excuse. It ought to be celebrated more often. Speaking of celebration, Herr Ibsen…” the old doctor reached down into his bag: seconds later his hands returned to the tabletop with a bottle of wine and a cup. “It is my wedding anniversary today. Would you mind celebrating with me? I am afraid I do not have any other glasses.”
“Oh, yeah…hold on a bit.” Ibsen carefully put his papers in their appropriate piles at the edge of the table, away from potential spills. After a moment of thought, he put them back in their file folder where they belonged.
The cup was easy enough to find in the cupboards, though it was a chipped coffee mug instead of a wine glass. It would have to do. He brought it back to the table.
“How long have you been married?” Ibsen asked as the old doctor uncorked the bottle and poured. He was honestly quite curious about it: The old doctor had remained a mystery these past three months, an outside specialist brought in as consultant for the Foundation study of E-2934.
“Fifty-five years. This would be fifty-nine.”
“Oh…I'm sorry.”
The old doctor smiled in that way perfected by grandfathers since the beginning.
“For what? She died in her bed, at peace, surrounded by her children and grandchildren. I have seen a great many people die, Herr Ibsen, and there are far worse fates than to spend a few last moments with those you love. Come now, let us celebrate fifty-five years of life and love. A toast.” He held up his own cup. “To Winry. Obwohl ich sie vermisse, ist sie in meiner Nähe.”
“To Winry.”
Outside, the melancholy wind bit and moaned from the cracks in the dead mountain. A wave brought with it an dead turtle, choked on a plastic bag and suspended in oily foam. A blind man in a hut told a story of when the sky burned. A mother and her child slept.
Eventually, the light in the kitchen was turned out.


November 15
Migraine again. They always seem to strike at the worst time, though I have a pretty good guess what the cause of this one is. The F Work pays well, but sometimes shit happens and it's hard to make ends meet. Sarah's been sick again and I haven't had a good night's sleep in a week. I've got a lot of paperwork to finish up but I don't think I'm getting any more done tonight.

November 17
I felt a lot better this morning. I don't know if it's just the migraine medication working, but it's not hurting as much. Funny thing is that when I woke up, I could have sworn I heard some weird scraping sounds, but it may just be a side effect of the meds.
Now the problem is that Sarah's in trouble at school again. Talking during class, throwing things, generally being belligerent. That she takes after her dad is the best and worst part about her. Guess it's time for another Lecture from Mom (tm).

November 18
Head hurting again. And here, I thought it was starting to get better. Lost my keys at work too, had to spend an hour looking for them. FML.

November 19
And… feeling better again. Heard another scraping sound when I woke up, maybe there's a mouse in the walls behind my bed or something? Was bleeding a little from my head when I woke up, kinda weird but it didn't hurt and stopped pretty quick, so I didn't think too much of it.
Weekly report is due tomorrow, gotta get cracking.

November 20
Ugh. Head hurt. No more writing tonight.

November 21
Heard that same scraping sound again when I woke up, but I don't really care about that. I don't know what I've been doing different, but damn it feels good to be alive. Hell, I don't even care about the weird looks Sarah's been giving me. I feel like I can just scrape away all the cares in the world and live pressure-free.

November 22
Life is awesome. Sarah is fine. Scrape away.

November 23
Scrape, scrape, scrape away.

Autopsy Report:
Assistant Researcher Dr. Evelyn Winters was found dead in her home along with her daughter Sarah Winters on 11/24/██ after having failed to report to work for 2 days. Cause of death in both cases was determined to be massive cranial trauma; both had holes carved into the top of their skulls and were missing all brain tissue.
Sarah appears to have been restrained and her skull penetrated by a corded electric drill using a wood spade bit. It is likely that she died from shock and blood loss before her brain tissue was removed using a serving spoon. All of the tools used were found, cleaned, in the kitchen.
Dr. Winters initially appeared to have died the same way, however the hole in her skull does not appear to have been caused by a tool. Instead, the wound's edges are consistent with having been repeatedly scraped over a course of several days by what appears to be extremely fine teeth. There is no evidence suggesting how her brain was removed at this time.
No brain tissue was discovered anywhere in the home, nor did the response team find evidence of any individuals other than the victims having been in the house. The front and back doors were both locked from the inside.
Dr. █████████
Senior Observer


Mary-Ann Lewitt re-adjusted her blanket. November night blustered outside the window, the cold leaking in through the seams of the apartment. Of course, the truth was that the warmth was leaking out and the “cold” was not actually anything, but Mary-Ann generally thought of that definition as the realm of scientists who had never experienced proper cold.
This cold was a small one, easily fought with a wool blanket and a mug of chai tea. Alexander was sleeping on top of the computer tower, as he often was. Mary-Ann sipped her tea and went back to scrolling through the database of groups.

Cult of the Wordsmith: Christian-descendant group of approximately 250. Language is considered sacrosanct in both verbal and written form: destruction of written material considered gravely sinful. In possession of the Gospel of Bartholomew. Current Status: Integrated. Threat Level: None.

Mary-Ann had, in any sense of the term, lived a rather interesting life. She had slammed the door behind her the moment she had the chance, sworn off the faith she had grown up with, served several tours overseas, saw too many friends die, came back to America with a few more cracks than she had shipped out with, picked her faith back up while trying to get some peace of mind, went back to school, re-adapted to life, found some work.

Those Who Gaze Deeply: A collection of European alchemical practitioners in search of the “God-Element”, that is, the material which God consists of. Connections with the Church of the Broken God suspected but never confirmed. Current Status: Defunct. Last Activity: 1991

That work happened to, once again, involve shooting at some rather fanatic people, except this time the fanatics she had shot at before were now her co-workers, and the fanatics she shot at now had a tendency to consort with demons in a very literal sense.

Sons of the Nephilim: Group of approximately 50 individuals located in a single compound within the Hindu Kush. Believe themselves to be the descendants of angelic beings: beliefs focus on re-attaining a perfect state. Highly violent, and in possession of a dangerous artifact, the supposed corpse of an angelic being. Integration talks pending. Current Status: Active. Threat Level: High.

Not as literal as it could have been, but at the end of the day there wasn't much difference between a horned and hoofed imp with a pitchfork and the talking corpse floating in a septic tank.

The Bramberly Family and followers: Group of 216 individuals located in North Dakota, United States. Central belief that the head of the Bramberly family was in contact with alien life forms, and as such was to serve as the liberator of mankind from evil through various sexual rituals. Possession of artifacts suspected but never confirmed. Compound was raided by agents of the Global Occult Coalition. Current Status: Defunct. Last Activity: 1982.

The database entries scrolled by. There were over six hundred entries on the list, though a good deal of them were either extinct, or only fragments existed. For some, there was enough material stored away to publish an entire catechism on the belief. For others, the cover blurb was all there was.

Icthians: A group measuring approximately 700 practitioners in small cells along the northeastern seaboard of the United States. Group worships fish and aquatic life. In possession of no known artifacts. Notable events include a schism over the admittance of lobsters into the Salt Canon (six casualties) and the deaths of forty-five individuals inside a single trailer home under claims that sardines were the most holy of fish. Current Status: Active. Threat Level: Minimal.

When people heard “counter-cult” what did they jump to? Church of the Broken God and the Fifthists. Most of the agents over in Project Malleus encouraged that sort of glamorizing of the job. Mary-Ann would admit that the stories about fighting off waves of cogboys and starminds did wonders for morale throughout the Initiative, but she was pretty sure those were exaggerations. In the end the vast majority of her job was cleaning up the small stuff. The big cults generally fell under the jurisdiction of other groups, the ones with the resources and ability to combat them effectively. Very few of the cults were more than a couple dozen people, most didn't have much staying power, and eventually, almost all of them devolved into some form of violence or sex, or both. If that didn't say something about the fallen nature of man, Mary-Ann couldn't think of anything better.

The Defiled: Buddhist-derived group, consisting of one hundred and eight individuals. Group is in possession of at least four anomalous artifacts. Primary goal is destruction of the physical universe, so as to help the entire human race achieve nirvana. Current Status: Active. Threat Level: High.

Ah, here was the one. Mary-Ann began converting her notes from that afternoon into the database. Nothing much to these ones: no name, no organization, not even a cult, really. Just an enemy group, one that managed to build a nice little torture engine in front of a church that killed fifteen people very slowly. The artifacts inside the church were likewise treated.
bleep-bloop The chat window opened on her screen. There he was, right on schedule.
Click
“Hey, Salah.” Mary-Ann continued tapping away at the keyboard.
“Hello. There has been a change in plans.” She could never place his accent. Whenever she thought it was pinned down as Middle-Eastern, it would seem more British, more Middle Eastern when it seemed British.
“Oh?”
“Three of them have committed suicide.”
“Arsenic dentures? Auto-erotic strangulation? That one thing with the diarrhea?”
“A small explosive hidden in the mouth. The splatter spelled out 'Fuck you' for two of them. The third was the entire text of the Reply of Zaporozhian Cossacks. The text was very small for that one.”
“Yow.”
“I was thinking of getting it engraved. It'd be a wonderful desk ornament.”
“Heh. Any of them left?”
“One. I was just about to arbitrate.”
“Wrapping up here as well.”
“Did the doctor say anything about your leg?
“Another week in the cast.”
“Ah, so it is. Well, God waits not for the machinations of man.”
blooooooop
—
Some distance away, in one of those places where people who needed to disappear disappeared in, a Pakistani man tucked his cellphone back in the pocket of his coat. It was a big, wool-lined thing, something bought on the cheap and worth a lot more than the money paid for it.
He focused his attention on the young woman in the makeshift cell. The tattoos were quite garish, as were the piercings, and the hair, and the gore splatters from her fellows didn't do much either. She was shouting all manner of vile things at him, screeching about how she'd paint the Prophet in shit and menstrual blood all over the kaaba.
He would have loved to make her suffer for that. The young man with boiling blood shook the cage his older self had built around it, screaming to make himself heard over her blasphemies. Drop the act, just kill her. She's nothing. Less than human. The lowest of infidels. Let the worms eat her and her soul rot in fire for eternity. You'd be justified, completely justified. The ritual just holds back the real justice…
As he did many times before, Salah reminded the young man with the boiling blood what that hate had gotten him before. The young man resisted, and he fought a lot harder than Salah could. He dug through the bag on the ground, looking for an excuse to busy his hands. As he always did, with each time the young man shook his cage, he thought it best to use the weapons of an old man: A calm tone and a quick tongue.
He stood up. In one hand, he held a slim tome bound in black, opened to a pre-marked page. In his other hand was a pistol.
“As is customary, you may take this moment to make a final atonement. If you wish to make a plea for forgiveness, please do so.”
The woman spat in his face.
“Very well. In the sight of God all-mighty and all-merciful, I find you guilty in the deaths of fifteen individuals and the desecration of holy relics contained within the church of St. Anthony. As appointed arbitrator of the eternal law, I hereby sentence you to death. With great regret and a heavy heart I do this, and trust in God's mercy for the sake of your soul, and for mine. Have you any final words?”
“You think you're the fucking Spanish Inquisition or something?”
Salah clicked off the safety.
“No, we don't.”

« Hub | Second Watch »


The professor felt a familiar, cold linoleum under his feet as he padded his way through the facility. It had been a long time, but everything still felt like how he remembered it. The entrance hall looked exactly the same, sans the furniture and decorative pieces. He could still remember coming through here on the first day, excited and ready to begin work on the project. Things hadn't gone the way he'd hoped with it, but he'd gone as far as he could. Those early days had been full of hope, that they could make the Foundation stronger. They were pushing the threshold of cross-anomalous testing to a point that had never been passed before.
General Anders tried to suppress his laugh as he watched the new director plod past the security checkpoint. It was completely ridiculous, having a dog of a man in charge of a project like this. Even if it was a brainy dog. Anders shrugged, and went back to reviewing the documents he'd requested. D-Class requisitions, anomalous relocation forms… just more weight dragging the project behind his schedule.
The roof of the research halls loomed imposingly overhead as the professor wandered through them, reading the sign of every door as he passed. Wehrner… lost him in '76 . Jacob… he left in '78. There were a few empty offices, ones that had the names removed for various reasons. Still, they'd had some good work in here. It was a place where history had almost been made.
This was always the most boring part of the job, the component stage. Measuring the subject's health, age, weight, and all that jazz… it was so tedious. He didn't even get to disassemble them, that was in assembly. All he got to do was count, cut and repeat. He wiped his gloves as he continued the prep. While he was thinking about it, they really ought to send them some more potent painkillers.
The professor recoiled as he caught a whiff of the old D-Class dormitories. Shaking his head, he quickened his pace. The D-Class had only been used for scientific purposes, which was a cause to strengthen the Foundation. Nothing wrong with that. Maybe some people had criticized him for allowing the waste to occur, why he hadn't tried to stop it. It hadn't even been his fault… Anders had ordered the D-Class. So it was the general's fault. Anders had been removed from the project, so the blame had lain with him.
The man looked up at the huge instruments suspended above him. They glistened in the dim light, with a copper sheen and several looming shapes in the dark. Something in the mess of gears began to emit a low hum, and the restraints around his wrists began to tighten. He sucked in a breath as a dull pain shot up his back, and slowly pulled up the spine. It felt agonizing, like someone dragging a sharp, burning hunk of iron down his back, stopping every few seconds when it got stuck and had to yank down itself to be dislodged. It continued to his neck, and he felt a sharp pain in the base of the skull. Soon, doctors would come to look at him, deem him an improperly formatted component, then move on to another test subject.
There was a door in the back, leading into the primary testing chambers. Most of the lab and test equipment had been left in these rooms, due to their antiquity making them unsuited for current Foundation testing. The professor passed by imposing lead pipes, interspaced by brass contraptions, with the capability to performing all sorts of biological testing. Release pipes jutted out of the walls and ceilings at every door, with the doors themselves being made of smooth steel. He walked by them, remembering the daily grind of testing, trying to find that one room.
Alan placed the body in front of 158, and pushed the procedural conditions to the optimal means. He sluggishly returned to the control chamber, and watched the machine do its work. On the first day, removing the souls of the condemned had seemed wicked cool, but since then the luster had worn off. It really was just a monotonous job. Push button, remove soul. Push button, send soul to another dude. He wasn't even doing any souls for the project, these were just test souls. Heh, there's a job he never would've dreamed of before. "Professional soul extractor".
Soon, the testing chambers gave way to the containment chambers. The prototypes had all been held here, each a new drain on resources. Even though the successful prototypes had been few and far between, each failure had taught them a little more about how these objects worked. Sometimes the lessons had been costly, but they always learned new things. At the end of the endless sets of concrete boxes and steel entrances, there was a simple wooden door. Kain pushed it open.
He had spent his last day with her, playing some catch. She always loved playing it with him, laughing every time he retrieved whatever she had thrown. They had finished playing, deciding instead to rest on the linoleum floor. Ruffling his head, they rested together. When the guards came, she refused to go. Didn't want to end up like the others, decommissioned and forgotten. He told her it was okay. That they were only taking her for a medical check before they let her go with him. She trusted him.

As of 7/19/████, all activity related to Project Olympia has been discontinued. Overwatch Command has deemed it to be a gross waste of resources, and permanently removed support for the project, with personnel assigned to work with it being moved to alternate sites. A hearing is to be held with the project administrators to determine how the project was able to continue as long as it did despite the lack of any concrete results. Prototypes and other equipment have been slated to be decommissioned.