FIRST: The Chosen Few

I jolt upright with a shriek.
The Inside Man almost definitely heard that — fucker's never gonna let me live this down. Honestly, though, I'm twenty-seven. I'm way too old to have nightmares. Especially ones about old flames.
Still, that was a vivid one.
My chest is buzzing. I look down to find myself wearing a vibrating black-and-red corset.
I definitely wasn't wearing this when I went to bed. I don't even wear corsets. But what really gives me pause is the IV drip feeding blood into my arm from a pouch on the bedside stand.
"Aweh! You're up." The Inside Man enters the room with a plastic and paper bag in his hands.
"What the hell did you do to me?"
He shrugs and sets the bags down. "Saved your life — you're welcome. The fuck happened to you anyways?" he asks, pulling out breakfast food and fluid pouches. "I went out last night to get a soda and came back with you bleeding to death all over your sheets. You're lucky I had that combat corset — don't touch it by the way, it's keeping your blood pumping in your body."
"Why is it vibrating?"
"It's on! Stopping your bleeding with ultrasonic vibration. It's also draining fluids from your chest, and you know, pumping your blood. Been sitting in the stash for bladdy ages — figured I'd sell it while we were here."
I nod slowly. Then the implications of the combat corset actually hit me.
"Fuck! My heart!"
"Ja. Your heart." The Inside Man passes me a danish and paper coffee cup. "Seriously, it's like you got it ripped right out of your chest."
In between nibbles of cherry danish and sips of coffee, I tell him about last night. His eyes narrow.
"What the hell did you do to this girl?"
"I kind of ghosted her."
He hooks a fresh blood bag up to my drip. "So she tore your heart right out your chest? What, did the market value of kidneys drop?"
"Ha ha." I try to get up but don't have any strength in my arms.
"I wouldn't move. You look like death warmed over."
I look down at the sheets. They definitely weren't red when we checked in.
"I feel like death warmed over," I admit. "Christ. Didn't think you cared so much about me."
"Course I don't," he says with mock indignation. "But you're an investment, and I take care of my investments. Here, have another danish."
"Thanks."
I start nibbling at the danish and then pass out mid-bite.
When I wake up, the Inside Man is gone. The drip is feeding some clear liquid into my arm. I'm strong enough to retrieve my phone and the TV remote from the table. This is progress.
I gnaw on my cold danish while checking the news. There's no mention of the bar brawl on any of the TV channels, but the failed sting op at Midwich Valley is trending on Void. I still can't imagine what possessed Hersh to name his bar that. Of course, he probably didn't. I wonder if robots can even own property in Three Portlands.
I'm mulling over automated capitalism and bar names ("Lock, Stock, & Barrel" and "Beermageddon" are my favorites) when the Inside Man enters the room.
"I got nothing," he tells me. "Spent all day trying to track this girl down but her trail's gone cold. If I'd entered your mind earlier I could've traced her emotions through you but I knew you wouldn't — it doesn't matter. You have any idea where she could've gone?"
"I have some ideas." I lay out the details of my former relationship with Natasha to the Inside Man.
"You're a real domkop, you know that?" he says when I'm done. "But that's good. We can work with this. You look a lot better too. Corset's doing a bang-up job."
There's no mirror nearby, so I take a selfie to check. I look like I passed out on a toilet. Still, it's better than looking like I died on one. The Inside Man interrupts my vanity session.
"Here's what I'm thinking. We kit you up, you pop over to your ex's universe, kill her and pop your heart back in, and we get back to robbing Anderson blind. I know for a fact you weren't born with that thing in you, so you gotta know how to get it back in you. Am I right?"
"Mostly," I say. "The problem is I can't just jump between universes anymore."
"The hell you mean?" he asks incredulously. "Just snort some of that hellsmack or whatever you need and jump over, right?"
"If I even look at my drugs without my heart I'm pretty sure I'll disintegrate," I explain. "It's literally the source of my mojo."
"Tch." The Inside Man looks worried. "Alright. You get some rest. I'll figure out how we get back to Eurtec. We'll have to talk to Alliott Chao."

Eurtec is different when I'm not on speed — warmer and slower. Above my head, a dozen sleek white monorails zip across the elevated maglev rails that crisscross the city. They shoot through gaps in the skyscrapers, all glass, steel and concrete. There are viewscreens tacked onto everything, blasting advertisements for brand new augmented reality implants, bionic prosthesis replacements, and smart kitchen sinks. It could be worse — if I had VR implants the damn things would be right in my face.
At ground level, street vendors parade their pirated tech, while shopkeepers stare at them derisively through their storefronts. From their 5D stalls, anartists vape contemptuously at both. The buildings seem taller, the streets wider, and the people dicier when I'm not hopped up. As it turns out, having performance enhancers on hand at all times does wonders for your confidence. Without my heart, I feel naked. Weak. None of these people notice me — I can't shake the feeling that if they did, they'd pounce on me like rabid dogs.
The Inside Man and I push through the main thoroughfare and turn off into the concrete jungle of inner Neuneukölln. The warmth of the city dips off. This whole area used to be heavily industrialized. It housed all of Prometheus Labs' research and manufacturing facilities until the company imploded in the nineties. Then everything was gutted or sold off, and the place was left to rot.
The buildings here are squat, concrete slabs. The advertisement screens are cracked and shattered. There are no street vendors or shopkeepers. Anartists still vape at us, but with the contempt of a robber sizing up an easy mark. The maglevs still run overhead, but they don't stop here anymore.
Our hideout is on the upper mezzanine of an abandoned warehouse near the center of the district. The lock is keyed to our biometrics — unless one of us unlocks the door and opens it, the stairway up won't be there. The moment we get inside we both flop onto the couch. When the Inside Man turns on the telly and starts discussing the meeting with Alliott, I almost feel like myself again.

For most people, Eurtec at night is just Eurtec without a blue sky.
I am not most people. So before I head out, the Inside Man puts me in body armor and hands me two pairs of hollowed-out bones.
"What the hell is this?" I ask him, examining them. They're unpleasantly warm to the touch.
"Slide 'em over your pointer and middle fingers," he tells me.
"The hell does it do?"
"Point those at someone and shoot. It'll remove their spine."
"How do I do that?"
"Same way you shoot a finger gun."
I squint at him, but slide them over my fingers. They feel rubbery, and flex with my digits.
"Looking good," he says. "Alright, let's get this show on the road."
With that, I walk out of the warehouse and into the night.
At night, the concrete slabs come alive. Shattered screens light up, feebly advertising cheap karaoke bars and sex-robot brothels that are in the same rooms. Trap houses invite anyone or anything with a bit of cash to spend it on software cracks, DRM patches, or just regular drugs. And of course, the mass-market K-pop robots are out in force.
I hate the stupid things. They kick up and down the city with their perfect clock-synchronized choreography and artificial smiles, begging suckers to come sing karaoke with them and dragging them back here if they offer even the slightest give. Then they dose them up to their eyes in drink, so that by the time morning comes the suckers don't remember anything but the buzz of karaoke. And the next night, the suckers come back.
My kit is concealed beneath a patterned hoodie, but even the hoodie does work: the patterns on the back confuse the CCTVs and K-pop bots. Everyone around here wears one. But it's not just how you look for the cameras — it's how you look for the people.
This part of Neuneukölln is especially bad. It's full of pickpockets and thugs looking to make a quick buck off the unaware. The police are useless — even if they patrolled here, they'd be practically blind since everyone wears the concealment patterns. Normally, nobody would mess with the girl with green flames pouring out from under her helmet. But right now, I'm pitifully human.
All I can do is walk with purpose and hope the lowlife around here know my reputation. There's honor among thieves in Eurtec. Everyone knows everyone, but nobody tells the cops. To be fair, part of it is because ratting your rival out would tank your reputation in the eyes of the original Chicago Spirit — everyone knows Richard Chappell hated snitches — but I like to think that most of it is personal pride.
Unfortunately, racial pride trumps personal pride for some people. It's only to be expected; when the authorities pray to Nordic supercomputers you're bound to get a few Nazis in the mix. The local variety call themselves the Chicago Geist. The rest of us call them anime Nazis due to their special blend of racism and techno-weeb fetishism.
I'm just a couple blocks from Alliott's place on the edge of the district when one such specimen gets in my way. He's weird even by anime Nazi standards; I can tell by the smell and swelling that the bastard has custom tanto implants in his arms. He's at least smarter than the fucks who get wakizashis in their arms — those guys can barely swing the fucking things — but he still got fucking samurai swords put into his arms.
"Gimme your money," he spits at me in German.
I shoot him with my finger gun. Nothing happens. Prick must've had his spine replaced. I should've guessed the spine-blasters wouldn't work on cyborgs. They're thrumming with occult magicks, but magick with a K tends not to touch metal.
While I'm trying to determine why he didn't get his back blown out, the weeaboo-Nazi squints at me. "Gimme your wallet or I'll slice you into sushi. I can see the crypto wallet in your pocket."
For emphasis, he takes a fish out of his pocket and throws it into the air. Twin tantos extend from his arms and he effortlessly chops the fish up into a hundred pieces before it hits the ground. The prick apparently had his reflexes enhanced too. So much for making a break for it.
I want to kill him. I want to kill this idiot stalking around at night with a bloody fish in his pocket so he can frighten minorities with his disgusting sword hands. Not because he's a Nazi or even because he's trying to mug me. But because he's in my way. Because he's standing there while I'm furious out of my mind. Because nobody would care if I slammed his head into the pavement and drove my frustrations through my boot into his skull until it cracked and pink mush came out.
But I can't. My chest is killing me, my goddamn gun doesn't work and if I try to physically rush him he'll gut me like a fish. I can't run away either; he's clearly faster than me. I'm outmatched by a racist weeaboo and it pisses me the hell off. But I don't have time for his hate-crime theatrics, so I toss him the USB stick with my payment for Alliott.
Somehow he flubs the catch and drops it. The idiot doesn't think to retract his swords, so every time he leans down they bonk into the ground. I walk briskly past him while he struggles to scoop up the wallet. I make two promises to myself: one, to throttle the Inside Man when I see him next; and two, to track the anime Nazi down and fillet him with his own blades once I get my heart back.
As I turn the corner, a stylized neon logo of a cat's face smirks down at me. This used to be Prometheus Labs' flagship factory here. Then it was left to die until a rag-tag group of anahums purchased it. Now it's the focal point for a thriving fashion boutique and underground criminal empire: the Kemonomimi Zaibatsu.
For the front of a criminal enterprise, the reception area is surprisingly clean. Then again, it's also the front for a legitimate worker-owned fashion boutique. The floor is tiled, the lights are fluorescent, and the seats are plastic and fiber. The reception desk is that weird gray plastic you see in schools and hospitals.
The receptionist is a bored-looking Russian woman in a blouse and miniskirt. She has a segmented metal cat-tail sticking up like a lightning rod jammed into her tailbone. I recognize the tail; it's an early model, back when they hadn't quite fixed all the kinks with artificial neural pathways in brain-machine interfaces. If I had to guess, her consciousness rejected the tail, so now it just sits there. That's probably why she works for the Kemonomimi Zaibatsu. They're one of the few employers, even in Eurtec, who would accept someone with such an obvious body-mod.
"Alliott Chao says you're a bitch," I tell her. She raises an eyebrow in recognition of the code phrase.
"Likewise, cock sucker. Membership card, please?"
I hand her a thin plastic card with the letters "KMZ" engraved on it in red and black. She accepts it without looking up from her computer. Her hands fly across the keyboard. After a moment, she answers.
"She should be in the makerspace on the fourth floor. Will that be all?"
"Yes, thank you."
She hands me my card. I make my way to the elevators and take the first one up.
The fourth floor is a single, wide-open room and hotbed of DIY activity. As I exit the elevator, two people step inside it carrying a full-scale Power Suit. There's a girl with what are almost certainly real cat ears flitting between a few laser cutters in the corner. In the center tables, some people are sewing Kevlar into the lining of their streetwear. There's an android sitting in a dentist's chair against the wall, illegally overclocking their own positronic brain. A few people are milling near a pinball machine drinking beers — homebrewed of course; the bioreactors here aren't just for show.
I find Alliott Chao in the cosplay manufacturing section, assembling a sniper rifle out of black thermoplastic.
"That's a Barrett XM500, isn't it?" I ask her. "I didn't know they'd uploaded the schematics online."
"They haven't," she replies. As soon as the barrel snaps into place, she starts disassembling it. "It's custom. Designed it myself. Uses a new shock-absorbent type of thermoplastic. KMZ is thinking of adding it to their lineup of tactical fashion. For bulletproof vests."
Alliott rolls up one sleeve and pant leg, revealing full arm and leg prostheses with several slots in them. The pieces of the sniper rifle fit into the slots perfectly.
"I like a girl who knows her guns. You're the Rookie, right?" she asks, rolling her sleeves down.
"Guilty."
"I've heard a lot about you. Jacking the Bank of Eurtec and the Phitransimun Combine? Pretty fuckin' cool."
"Thanks. What's the sniper for?" I ask her.
"My business," she says, rubbing her arm. "What're you looking for?"
"I need a bidirectional Way. Moddable one, that I can change the outlets for. I need all the information you can find on a witch called Natasha Tokyopop. And I need a way to get to the Moon."
She raises an eyebrow. "When do you need this stuff?"
"ASAP."
"It'll run you about…" She pauses and then runs off a number with a whole lot of zeroes.
"Cool. Can I get back to you about that?"
"What? The Inside Man said you'd be bringing payment."
"I… had some trouble on the way here. I don't have the cash on me," I admit.
Alliott shrugs. "Can't do anything if you don't — hold on." She cocks her head for a moment, then starts jabbering into empty space in a language I'm not familiar with. Her facial expressions go from bemused to angry to conspiratorial and back again for several minutes. Then she hangs up and looks at me.
"Tell you what. I've got a job for you. You do this, we both get a fat payday and I get you what you need. You interested?"

NEXT: Loud, Lawless, and Lost


HUB: Speed Demon

I don't usually hang around Three Portlands, but the dives are second to none and the bartenders aren't programmed to ask questions. I order a blit-bomb, and Hersh rotates with a click and starts mixing a cocktail of glowing chemicals that would be more suited to a bowl of Jello or toxic waste vat. The pub has seen better days: the paint is warped and split, the air is like melting fondue, and everyone in here is loaded for bear. But the drinks — the drinks will kill you. And that's my kind of scene.
Hersh passes me the cocktail. It looks like Superfund sludge. I toss the blit-bomb back, and it hits me like a freight train, flushing my pores and making my skin steam. The hot euphoria of my innards being melted down and rebuilt by my chest engine is better than sex.
While I'm coming down off the high of ingested toxic waste, a hobo in blue sweatpants and blue windbreaker sidles onto the stool next to me and asks Hersh for a tonic. I order another blit-bomb. We don't look at each other.
"You the witch?" he says out of the corner of his mouth.
I heft up a small steel case in one hand. He does the same with a small USB stick. Hersh holds out two glasses: one full of tonic, the other of iridescent rainbow slick. We place our goods on the counter, then simultaneously snatch the other from the table and down our drinks.
I'm lighting up a cigarette when the hobo draws a pistol on me.
"FBI! Put your hands up! You are under arrest for trafficking in controlled substances, homicide, assault and battery, unlawful possession of firearms and paraweaponry, opening Ways within restricted spaces, crossing state lines in the commission of a crime, sending threats by mail, racketeering, and armed robbery."
He manages to get it all out in one breath. I haven't even managed to close my lighter.
"You forgot jaywalking," I say. Behind the agent, a man in an ugly grey hoodie slouching in a booth gives me a wink. The hoodied man stares intently at a nearby wizard — a hobgoblin of a man who almost certainly has a penchant for fire magic.
The agent stares at me. "Hands up!"
Hoodie's stare drills into the hobgoblin, who slowly sidles out of his seat with a bottle in hand.
"Do you know what's in a blit-bomb?" I ask the agent. I snap my lighter closed and he flinches slightly. Nearby, two nondescript men and one woman stiffen — they must be his backup. "Do you even know what'll happen if you shoot me?"
All eyes are focused entirely on me.
"What?" the agent asks. His finger tightens on the trigger.
I wink. "Nothing!"
The hobgoblin smashes his bottle over the agent's head and takes three lightning bolts in the back for the trouble. I grab the case and throw myself over the counter where Hersh is hiding. He stares at me accusingly as bolts of fire and other blood magicks destroy his selection of exotic depressants.
"Hey, don't look at me," I tell him. "I didn't start this."
I take a moment to think. Those bolts were thrown by the UIU. I'm not just dealing with some regular joes in over their heads. This must be MOOT: the Mobile Occult Operations Team. The heavy hitters. The wizard SWAT.
This will be harder than I thought.
Hersh looks ready to reactivate his combat programming. Time to make my great escape. From my left pocket comes a pair of bright-orange knuckledusters; from my right, a fistful of purple pills that tend to interact explosively with blit-bombs. I pop the pills and slide the knuckledusters over my fingers.
My whole body starts vibrating. As I peek over the countertop, the vibrations concentrate themselves into my fingers. They start to glow — a close enough look would reveal tiny explosions coming off my digits, bombarding the surrounding air with heat and concussive force like miniature thermobaric warheads.
A quick scan of the room reveals three things: Hoodie's disappeared; the MOOT agents have managed to instigate a bar brawl; and the room has no exits. I had to get PushedTM in by a bouncer — and in retrospect that's probably why the UIU wanted to meet here. No way out.
But I'm used to making my own.
I throw the case over the counter and vault over it, almost immediately taking a bar stool to the face; luckily, its owner is more alcohol than water at this point. She offers no resistance when I catch it and yank it from her hands. The stool immediately starts disintegrating, but stays intact long enough for me to catch a knife with the seat and bash its wielder so hard that their mechanical eyes pop out of their sockets.
A pair of angry wizards lurch at me. I duck under Gandalf the Chrome and sweep his legs out from under him. His buddy tries to lurch over him but receives a kick to the cybernetic crotch, then an uppercut that sends him in one direction and his metal jaw in another. As Chrome tries to get to his feet, I elbow drop him in the skull and drive him into the ground with a CHOOM.
I grab the case from the floor and a lightning bolt goes over my head. Looking up, I see the MOOT team stalking towards me. They tried bringing me in quietly — now they just want me quiet. While the female agent lobs lightning bolts at me, her backup keeps the rabble at bay. It's all I can do to weave between the shots without losing my balance — her trigger finger is faster than the bolts she's throwing.
Then I get the drop on myself — literally, tripping backwards over a stray bar stool. It's exactly what I need. Neither of us are expecting the stumble, so her next few shots go wide. I manage to convert the fall into a back roll and come up on my knees. Then I throw the case at her.
Her lightning bolts are meant to disable nervous systems, not inanimate objects, so it hits her full force in the face. As she goes down, I lunge at her goons. They react a split-second too slowly. I reach out, grab them by their collars, and slam their heads together. It sounds like bottles breaking.
With my immediate vicinity free of morons, I scoop up the case and continue looking for an exit. Then my gaze meets the hobgoblin's. He's recovered from his impromptu tasing — man's tougher than he looks — and I can tell he blames me for it.
The hobgoblin smashes a bottle against an adjacent table and shouts an incantation, turning the spilling booze into a column of fire. He wraps both hands around his drunken angel sword and lunges at me, confident in his killing blow. And he should be. I've seen that kind of magic fire before: there's not a substance on any Earth that can stop it, and if I try to block it I'll be bisected like butter.
So I don't block it. I step inwards to meet him, twisting slightly to get between his arms and then grabbing his bottle hand and wrenching it upwards. He involuntarily releases his grip on the sword. As it flies into the air, I elbow the hobgoblin in the face and onto the ground. Then I bash the case into his face — once, twice, thrice. Not enough to kill him — that would break the spell and leave me covered in booze — but enough to keep him down.
I stand up and catch the bottle by the neck, then look at the walls. It's impossible to punch through them — they're PushTM only. But I have a drunken angel sword. And there's not a substance on any Earth that can stop it.
I haven't even finished the thought before I dig the blade into the wall, carving out a Rookie-shaped ring of fire big enough for me to slip through.

It's almost nightfall, or whatever they call it in Three Portlands, by the time I shake the city's police golems and make it back to the hotel. When I get into the room, the Inside Man is sitting on his bed, still wearing that ugly grey hoodie, munching on some crisps and watching a brainless action flick. I have no idea why he likes those things.
"Why d'you still have that thing?" he asks upon seeing the case in my hand. "I said you could leave it behind. It's empty, innit?"
I shrug. "I got attached."
The Inside Man rolls his eyes. "Whatever. Good work with the UIU — I made sure someone streamed you kicking their asses," he crows. "That kind of infamy is sure to put us in the top running for the name 'Chicago Spirit'."
"Us?" I say, fixing him with a disbelieving sneer. "You ditched me the moment those guys started throwing lightning around."
"Hey, I got you the hobgoblin, didn't I? Your job is to be badass. Mine is to let you be badass."
He stuffs a handful of crisps into his mouth. "I knew you'd get outta there fine. You gotta believe in yourself. Like I do."
I roll my eyes, then toss the case onto my bed and join him on his. "Seriously, what the hell are we doing here? You just said it was recon — for what?" I ask, reaching for the crisps.
The Inside Man perks up. "You remember Farhan?"
I nod.
"That was 'cause I was trying to get in on black market augs, right?" he says, passing the crisps. "But I got bored with it and so we never did anything. Well, I got hooked on this video game a couple days ago — it's called EVE Online, this online multiplayer game where you can start corporations and rob people and plan heists and — my point is, I'm hooked. So I want to try the black market thing again, for real."
He leans back. "Three Ports is prime for this kind of thing. Place is full of Maxwellists and the only real augcorp in town is Anderson — and they charge a fortune. Folks are chomping at the bit for cheap augs, and that's where we come in. We'll make a killing. But before I do anything I wanted to scope out the cops. See what they've got."
"So what've they got?"
"Nothing I can't handle with a good network. Anyways, that's all I needed from you. Gonna check in with my selves, see if they have any suggestions, chat with some folks around town. You can take off if you want. Got any plans for the rest of the week?"
"Think I'll stick around," I reply. " Go shopping, maybe. There's a few indie comics they sell here I wanna check out. Maybe a new mortar and pestle. What else is on?"
"Cool," he says, hitting the remote. The TV starts showing The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants — don't judge, it's a great film. We watch the movie in amicable silence for an hour, only breaking the cheesy, feel-good dialogue onscreen with the crunching of crisps and the incessant gurgling of my stomach. The Inside Man goes out for thirty minutes, returning with a pair of large pizzas and a six-pack of beer that's been charmed to have twice the ABV. I devour it all — the thing inside my chest is hungry enough that nothing comes out the other end anymore. The beer — and that stunt I pulled earlier with the blit-bomb — put me into a coma before the movie finishes.
I don't sleep well that night.
I find myself sitting around a dining table. It's on the Moon. My ex-girlfriend, Natasha, is there. She's yelling at me, but no sound comes from her mouth. I look at the table. In front of me, a human heart pulses on a plate.
I take up my fork and start eating it. Natasha screams louder, soundlessly. I stop eating the heart and stand up from the table. Then I fall onto a waterslide, high in the sky. Shaggy and Scooby-Doo are there, speaking Tamil and wearing orange turbans. I'm on a high cliff overlooking an orange sunset — then something pushes me off and I plummet far to the ground.
I land on a couch. Then it's a toilet. Natasha dunks my head into it. I can't breathe, and then I breathe the water and I'm fine. I'm lying in bed with Natasha. I touch her shoulder and she rolls over. She doesn't have a face.
I'm trapped in a bunker with a family I haven't spoken to in years. There are monsters outside. There's an elf in the room. I stab him. The monsters get in. I hide under a table. It finds me. It has Natasha's face. I can't breathe.
There's a shadowy figure on top of me, knees planted firmly on my diaphragm in a way that makes my lungs scream. I can't breathe and I can't move and then the thing plunges its hand into my chest. My chest hurts and the thing looms over me with my heart in its claws. The light of its hellish pulse illuminates its face. It's Natasha.
But this is no dream.
I'm awake, and Natasha is on top of me with my heart in her hands.
The last time I saw her, I'd left her heartbroken in a different bloody universe.
Now she's here to return the favor.

NEXT: Morphine Machine


I was never here

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Info

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Anabasis She's mostly gone
Start here
Eat more of my SCPs. Eat them all.
Also please eat some of these

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

Devouring over 344 pages of case file on just the first three months of possibly the biggest ongoing case in Dade County was supposed to be the beginning of her big step forward to the federal level. Somehow, devouring over 344 pages left her as empty and rudderless as having gone in blind.
She held the tape recorder up to her lips, not wanting to be overheard through the thin drywall of her office, "SA Fatima Cortes beginning work on Rhiannon Locke case, control number 3-5-zero-zero-zero-zero-9-1-8-zero, picking up from original investigation initially filed by SA Howell Cairns." Her voice droned slightly, but she could clearly remember every word and number she spoke out loud to transcribe later on.
"Subject Rhiannon Locke had been classified a potential violent political dissient on…" She frowned and looked over the dates. There were some anomalies. "Report lists date of 8/23/05 which is the start date of the Key Biscayne incident, but goes on to cite information obtained prior to that date, going back to August 18th, August 19th, and one source going back as far as August 3rd." She was supposed to have any and all information given to her regarding reports made by confidential sources or potential informants. They'd given her nothing but this report and an FBI-UIU addendum, none of which detailed any specific information gathered prior to August 23rd.
"Following that incident, violent clashes between police, WestCiv militia, and this unidentified criminal gang or 'cult' led by Rhiannon Locke briefly intensified, then died down as it is believed Locke's gang has gone underground. A propaganda campaign initiated by Locke's followers soon followed, along with the potential leak of classified information regarding an as of yet unconfirmed anomalous item initially discovered by Rhiannon Locke's transgender sister Agent Priscilla Locke of the SCP Foundation." She turned over the page and scanned through several of the lines to herself. Somehow this Priscilla Locke had managed to avoid any direct connection to Rhiannon Locke, and Foundation personnel had successfully sealed her off from any further police scrutiny. The report contained logs of police requests to sit down and speak with Priscilla Locke, which Locke seemed eager to do. Yet always the officers in charge ended up delaying any interview, or the Foundation would step in and they'd back down without a fight.
"Fats, learn how to type." Agent Velez called out through the wall from his office behind hers.
She ignored him and went on, not changing her tone or volume.
"Some time following Key Biscayne, Rhiannon Locke drops out of sight. Over the coming weeks, the propaganda campaign intensifies and pre-recorded messages from Rhiannon Locke herself begin to appear and local news stations broadcast them widely. None of the videos are timestamped or contain any indication they were filmed post-Key Biscayne. No one reports Rhiannon Locke as a missing person, and following the second video broadcast, a warrant is issued for her arrest. Information pieced together from phone records, witness statements, and a single confidential informant can account for the movement of Rhiannon Locke between August the 23rd up until September 1st, 2005. After this date, all information as to Rhiannon Locke's whereabouts ends."
She scanned through some more lines, ignoring again as Velez droned through the wall. "Fats, learn to type!"
"Digital intercepts from Priscilla Locke's laptop indicate a brief online conversation between Priscilla and Rhiannon Locke in the early morning hours on 11/5/05. Partially redacted log is included in supplementary forms in the report. Rhiannon Locke's IP address is spoofed and encrypted via 'onion…' uh, 'onion routing' and thus is unlikely to provide a positive location of the subject. Apart from this communication, there is no further indication of Rhiannon Locke's whereabouts, nor any further activity on her e-mail account. There's been no activity on her bank account. Her cell phone was discovered wiped and without a SIM card by Priscilla Locke after Key Biscayne and delivered over to Foundation personnel, subsequently delivered to the FBI-UIU. Her social security number has not been used since June of last year, 2004."
"Fats. Type."
She sighed and looked over the information report filed by SA Cairns the day following Key Biscayne. Hours and hours of intel, communication, information, stopping to check and investigate every footprint left behind by Rhiannon Locke while she dashed out ahead of them. Just going by the summary of the investigation so far, she could feel question after question bubble up following every line, bursting to give way to even more questions as the investigation dragged on from September to October, then to November. How had no one had their sights on Rhiannon Locke before Key Biscayne? Where did this Cult of hers come from? How was it organized so quickly? Did it pre-date her, and then she simply took over? Why would so many people follow her? Where were they getting their guns and supplies? How were they getting their information?
Why was the Foundation shielding Priscilla Locke?

"This month has been the longest, quietest of my life."
Priscilla Locke nodded, not looking up at Aurianne as the two of them sat and waited outside the conference room at the school. She'd been contacted by police, asked to meet with them and answer some questions. Then they postponed the meeting. That had been near Halloween, and it was already December with no further news from them. All the while, Rhiannon's cult had been quiet as well.
"I've started drinking again." Aurianne went on, leaning closer to Priss.
Nothing in the cops' tone had indicated they considered her anything but a person of interest, but even as the sister and one of the sole surviving relatives of a suspected domestic terrorist, she'd made it clear over the phone they likely had better and more important information about Rhiannon Locke than her own sister did.
"I'm taking part in anonymous orgies and stuffing myself with food, drink, and dick."
Priss sniffed, and lowered her head. It wasn't even an issue for her that they wanted to question her; it's that they kept putting it off, leaving her frustrated and waiting. And for what? What else was happening that was more important? And was the Foundation involved in some way?
"I'm also pregnant and have no idea who the father is. I plan on leaving the kid with you and whipping ass to Tennessee."
Priss lifted her head and pouted, "'Whipping ass', how do you 'whip ass' to a location?"
"You weren't even listening to me!"
"I was. I was just more concerned with real problems. Also, you never drank to begin with so it was pretty obvious by then."
Aurianne sat back, looking over at the conference room, the muffled sound of scraping chairs indicating they'd be called in soon, "What problems? You are not your sister, and you're not involved in anything she's done or doing. The police know it, the Foundation knows it. Marlowe's even stuck herself out there for you."
"How do you know?"
Aurianne huffed and shook her head. "I probably shouldn't have said that."
"Too late, you did."
"There was a big meeting a while ago about you. Well, not actually a big meeting, but some administrative types were there. A few people wanted you re-assigned due to your sister."
"Reassigned from Anabasis?"
Aurianne shrugged, "The project, the site, both, I don't know. They said the cops would be looking into you as part of their investigation, and Marlowe specifically said she wanted you here, and would do whatever she needed to do to keep you on. She said she'd handle any complications should the police try stepping into our business."
Priss glanced up as the conference room door opened. Dr. Jaime Marlowe emerged first, her hair flowing free down her shoulders and eyes wide, pupils narrowed down to points. Most unusual was she was wearing makeup. She didn't look like she'd been in a business-related meeting. She ignored the two of them and swept past, followed by several other on-site personnel and someone dressed in overalls and a casual shirt.
"I don't suppose it'd be of much use to ask why." Priss grumbled once they were gone.
"Maybe you're her scapegoat. You get written up more often than she does, it makes her look less incompetent by comparison. You know what Dr. C said about her once, a few years ago? Said she was 'painfully, painfully, painfully, painfully average'. Four precise instances of the word 'painfully'."
"Why?" Somehow that news bothered her more than the implication that she herself was a troublemaker, getting 'written up' for her outbursts. And there was no doubt that her name always came up in any meeting involving Anabasis.
"Some work she had done. Don't remember the details, but it was… wild. I'll need to read up a bit on it so I can remember more of the details and tell you the story. It was wild."
Priss got up to her feet as Kohn exited the conference room, and stopped to look at her. They said nothing for several moments, and then Kohn left without a word, leaving her there and the conference room dark and empty.
"Weren't you supposed to like…?" Aurianne trailed off, face contorted in growing concern.
"I guess they forgot about me," Priss smirked and slid her hands in her coat pockets, "For once in my life."
"How's it feel?"
Priss tried to respond, and gazed off into the distance where Marlowe and Kohn and the others had left. She didn't know how to feel about it. She felt as if she were now a marginal figure in a story that had, until then, seemed to be forcing her into its center. She truly could not contemplate what it meant for her one way or another.
"You're thinking too much," Aurianne interrupted, "Stop thinking and go on and do something just for yourself. You could try out the orgy scene. It could definitely use someone like you."

Marvin Ren, a part-time sheep farmer in New South Wales, stood on a stump overlooking the field his sheep were grazing in. The dogs had stopped sniffing around them and were looking up at him with concern. He took no notice of it, writing in a notepad and occasionally checking his phone. After several minutes of them staring silently, he looked up and saw what they were staring at.
The sky was almost cleanly split in two, one half pale blue and smeared with light, distant clouds, the other half a dense, cloudy red, shimmering with light. It didn't look anything like a lightning storm or aurora.
He glanced down at his cell phone and started to text his friend outside Newcastle. He kept watching the sky while waiting for the buzzing response.
"It's too big to be aircraft, inn'it? Maybe meteor shower? Aurora?" He looked over at the dogs. They seemed to have calmed a bit now that he'd noticed, but they were still tense.

James "Jayise" Davies looked down at his phone, then up at the sky. Nothing looked unusual. He looked back down and tried to parse Marvin's message again.
"Red?" He uttered out loud unintentionally. A woman beside him in the bus looked over at him. He glanced back and found himself blurting out "You hearing about red skies from anyone?"
"The news." She said, about to turn away before catching the confused look on his face. "It's all over the news about China. Red skies and everything."
He quirked a brow, "China?" He muttered, gaze drifting back down to his phone as he began to text again.

"China?"
He looked back down at his phone. There was nothing in the skies where his friend was. He'd start calling around. Marvin glanced up at the sky again, and started to panic. The shimmering lights were diving; the red sky was swarming over the blue sky, and coming down close to the ground.

Priss could never empathize with the sensation of having the world revolve around you or being the center of the universe, even when she found herself in that spot.
Walking home late in the day was absolutely nothing like it had been immediately after Key Biscayne. The street lights were on earlier, while the sun was still up, but no one lingered out in the streets much anymore.
In a metropolitan city there was no chance of the streets being entirely deserted; there'd always be people like her, walking home, some standing outside their homes, or a gas station, or a park. The traffic was the same ceaseless muck it always was. The same elderly Cubans sat playing dominoes in parks or roaming Calle Ocho as always.
Priss hadn't even realized until she'd crossed over eighth street just what it was; the homeless. There were none.
She backtracked a block and glanced down the street all ways. It was quieter than usual, but nothing seemed out of place. Except there were no homeless. Not just the homeless, but the poor working class. The man on a mobility scooter with the faded Puerto Rican flag sticker and the green plastic cup begging for change was gone. The man and woman duo who darted through stopped traffic hawking drinks by the highway exit weren't there. The massive black man who always wore white and sat by the parking lot writing in his notepad for hours. No one who'd be considered "lower class" was out on the streets.
The thought struck her to take off her clothes and walk home naked, as if that would somehow fix the malaise that seemed to linger over the city like muck. Her cheeks burned hotly with incoherent frustration. None of the people she'd just thought about likely knew her name, and were probably unaware of her existence. Yet now their absence felt like a failing on her part. She'd failed, somehow, and now everyone was abandoning her because of it.
Someone was parked across from her house and idling in their car. For some reason Priss stormed up to them and looked at them through the window. It was a wirey little woman in a buttoned up shirt and tie, papers and files piled up on the passenger seat. She looked barely out of college and turned her dark eyes up at Priss with wide-eyed shock.
"What the fuck do you want?" Priss snarled at them.
"I'm sorry, I was waiting for you. My name is Fatima Cortes, I'm with the FBI-UIU. If you have the chance I'd like to talk to you about Rhiannon Locke."
Priss blushed, feeling stupid for having lashed out at her for no particular reason. "FBI-UIU? You're not the local police."
Fats nodded, "I'm not, no. The case was handed over to another special agent a while ago while working with the police department, and they've since handed it over to me, since I'm with the UIU, and the Foundation was involved."
Priss furrowed her brow and stared down at the woman. FBI-UIU? And the Foundation was involved, how? Aurianne had mentioned Marlowe was protecting her. Why? Did that also mean potentially sabotaging a police investigation just to keep her from talking to the police? She grunted softly and looked away from the agent. "Do you have a warrant?"
"Do I need one?"
Priss sniffed, and stepped away from the car, "Come on in."

8/24/05
The sickly sweet smell of garbage left Rhiannon Locke loudly retching and gagging every few skips. Soon she couldn't take it anymore and stopped, peeling off her clothing and stuffing it into her bag. She hopped out onto the sidewalk, naked save for her shoes, and shuddered. Would someone come and kill her? Assault her? Call the cops on her? Throw a sheet over her head and leave?
There was no one around, so she started to walk again, skin prickling with goosebumps, excitement making her skip and giggle uncontrollably. Wherever she went, she heard nothing. In the distance were sirens, the occasional scream and shout, the monotonous thudding of a helicopter. None of it seemed to grow either closer or further.
She kept skipping for an hour, and ended up somehow back at the metro station, looking off in the direction of Key Biscayne. There were lights in the sky. Like airplanes and helicopters, but too many. It was as if God had thrown glitter onto the night sky.
She grinned and giggled, and broke down again. She rushed to the edge of the train platform and threw her arms out, hands in fists, and screamed, "I am the great destroyer!"
Her voice echoed, and she shuddered again and screamed louder, "I AM THE GREAT DESTROYER!"
Her voice didn't echo that time. Perhaps she'd screamed too loud to hear the echo. The lights in the sky were flickering, like airplanes and helicopters, but too many.
Suddenly she felt depressed. All at once the realization struck that this was her peak. She would never achieve anything like this in her life ever again. Things she'd set in motion were now self-perpetuating, and she was no longer a vital piece. It could, and would, go on without her. The thought deflated her. There were no sounds now, not even the distant sirens, the occasional scream and shout, the monotonous thudding of a helicopter.

"'Fats' she called herself?"
"Fatima Cortes. Fats for short."
"What did she look like?" Aurianne flattened her ice cream cone with her tongue, then started to lick around the sides to make a square.
"Like, fuck, how do I describe how someone looks? Brown hair, brown eyes, between five and six feet tall, between 50 and 200 pounds? I don't know. They looked ordinary. Average. Conventionally attractive. Could be Caucasian or Hispanic. Eyebrows. Nose. A face. She had at least one of those."
Priss sat in her home with Aurianne Sharpe again, just a few days after meeting with the detective. She thought it had finally come, the big routine, unimportant police interview that had been scheduled and postponed for months which the Foundation was either obstructing or the police were treading lightly to avoid stepping on the Foundation, or something or the other. Everything she had been asked had to do with Rhiannon Locke, before or immediately following Key Biscayne. The only thing remotely resembling an accusation was a question as to whether Rhiannon might've returned home before Priss to dispose of her cell phone, or if that had occurred before the events that night. The detective seemed completely uninterested in Key Biscayne or in Rhiannon's cult at all.
"Was she hot?" Aurianne went on, squaring her ice cream and dabbing it along the sides to create steps.
"I just told you she was conventionally attractive."
"Would I find her hot?"
"You have no standards."
"Would she find me hot?"
"I think you would terrify her, seven foot whore that you are."
"She sounds cute." Aurianne gazed upon her ice cream cone, having made a sloppy step pyramid of the green pistachio. "She didn't ask anything about Foundation business or your talking to Rhie about Foundation stuff?"
"It never came up. All she seemed interested in was who she knew, where she might've gone, the people she hung out with. She seemed to treat it more like a missing person case than a criminal investigation."
Aurianne leaned over the couch armrest, the ice cream wobbling dangerously close to Priss before she jerked it back and mushed her lips into it. "Listen… It is a criminal investigation. Don't let her try to trip you up with the questions or anything. I get the feeling the only reason you haven't been properly interviewed is because of the Foundation. Otherwise you'd be polygraphed, questioned, polygraphed again, and once you let slip that you told Rhiannon anything at all about Anabasis, even its name… I can't even think of a hypothetical. Maybe the Foundation would be merciful and give you some amnestics and make you forget the last year of your life."
"I would absolutely love that, Aurianne."
"No you wouldn't. Especially you. The… The hormones, how they might react with the amnestics, the negative reaction? It'd fuck you up beyond repair."
"I would absolutely love that, Aurianne."
Aurianne slid over the armrest and forced Priss to scoot aside and offered her the ice cream cone, "No you wouldn't, and stop talking like that. Marlowe's on your side for what ever reason, and more importantly I'm on your side here. We're gonna take care of you."
Priss leaned away and smiled, looking off at her balcony at the empty pale blue sky, "No. No you can't. Take care of me. I'm the only one who can take care of myself now."
Aurianne frowned, and went back to her ice cream cone.

It was a week till Christmas when people started panicking. Jayise had been working until 11pm that night and the sky looked normal to him. Maybe a bit brighter than usual. With all the commotion in China and the aid convoys being shipped there, airplanes were taking off day and night more often than usual. Didn't seem unusual to him to see a bit more lights in the sky.
When he woke up around noon, the sky was completely red, like a bucket of water filled with blood, the clouds streaking like shreds of meat and tissue floating around in it. Some people were panicked, and the police suggested everyone stay indoors. The news was still fixated on China. He didn't know why until he stopped to actually watch for a bit. The red in the sky had happened in China, too. The biological weapon that had detonated. Authorities thought it was the same thing, spreading out and into Australia now. But so fast, too fast for anyone to have planned anything beyond the usual routines. Close air vents, seal windows and doors. Duct tape. He needed duct tape.
"Chris'sake… Pick up the fuckin' phone," He shouted into his cell phone, just as his father answered on the other end, "Da! You're still at home?"
"Wot's this being said about the air vents? I 'aven't got any vents. Your sister was hollerin' about me vents."
"Da, stay where you are. Seal off the doors with duct tape. Is she there with you?"
"I'm not a daft old man, I know what to do. But I 'aven't got any vents."
"I'm coming to you, Da, call Olly and Jane and tell them to get over there now" Jayise was looking between the window and the television. Red skies seemed to be swarming in at random, ignoring the wind, coming from north, south, east, and west, filling in Australia like the front of a composition notebook. One neighborhood would be completely coated in red, and then have a single block open to the sky.
"Olly ain't even here, an' Jane went out for more duct tape. Wot d'ya think they mean by vents? I haven't got any, I said."
"The air conditioning, Da, turn it off and close up the vents."
"The 'ell I'm shuttin' off the air."
"Da, just do it, I'm coming over now!" He hung up and began to look around the room, spinning in a circle as he frantically tried to decide what to take with him. What was worth saving in his single-room shithouse of a flat? Clothes were everywhere, papers were everywhere, the bookshelf was as loaded down with empty cans and boxes as with books.
His phone rang again and he dropped it, scrambling to his knees to pick it up before it could break and pressing it on his cheek, "He-Hello? F-f-.. Hello?"
"Oy mate, is it Red where you are?"
It was Marvin, "The fuck you ringing me for asking if its Red? Of course it's Red here. It's Red where you are, too."
"No, mate, it was Red, but it ain't Red anymore. The dogs. The dogs, mate."
"What?" He was starting to sob. The news alerts had gotten more urgent and tense in just the few minutes since he'd turned on the telly, and now Marvin, the guy who'd first called him about the red skies, was casually calling him up as if inviting him out for a pint.
"Eh, nevermind that, actually. Don't worry about it, I'll call you back tomorrow, ey?"
The other line went dead before he could get out another confused "What?"
The clouds outside were sinking. The air started to pick up and the neighborhood took on a dark pink tinge. He bolted out of his room and sprinted down the steps and out the door to his car. The air was surprisingly cool to the touch, but the longer he breathed it in and out while fumbling into his car, the more it started to burn on his skin and in his lungs. Once in the car, he backed out of the parking lot and into the street, all the while the burning persisted.
His phone was ringing again. It was Marvin's number. He answered it and held it firmly to his face, "Mar—"
"Jayise, listen, you're obviously stressed out, it's not a good situation."
"It's a goddamn bomb, you tosser, a goddamn radioactive biological bomb from China, it's gotten over here!"
"Listen, mate. Just breathe, alright?"
"Fuckin'." He hung up and threw the phone into the passenger seat. His sinuses were burning even more. He realized then the AC had been left switched on when he got in and he'd forgotten to switch it off.

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An important transaction took place under flickering lights at the quiet heart of West Virginia. Items were piled up, prices were exchanged, and negotiations lasted long into the night. Harsh terms were set, harsher demands were made, and a tense air settled about the place. A glum salesman tallied goods as ▓▓▒░▓ adjusted her wooden mask. Ovine, in honor of a most profitable creature. Finely sculpted, in honor of her family's means. She watched through glass eyes as he passed items under a red light. Efficiently, as befitting one trusted to watch over a market alone. ▓▓▒░▓ would have expected nothing less from a world of such excessive commerce.
"So, uh." The salesman pushed long strands of greasy brown hair away from his forehead and fiddled with the machine before him. "With the drinks, and the chips, and the candy, and the magazine, and the band-aids, and the jerky, that's uh… $27.67."
"Your terms are acceptable." ▓▓▒░▓ held out a bandaged hand. A tinkling tide of silver filled her palm, rising like water in a bubbling spring. Money, but the wrong kind. She frowned and closed her hand, opening it again to reveal faux gold coins. Gold in spirit, copper-plated by feel, and engraved with the faces of this world's honored dead. An admirably complex system for bearing the weight of unsubstantiated wealth. The coins were met with a confused expression by the shopkeeper, but he accepted them all the same.
▓▓▒░▓ stepped out into the dead of night. In the most hellish days of summer, the Shell station was the only light for miles along the highway. Offering sorcerous shelter from the heat and a vast array of almost-food, it drew things far larger than moths from the treeline. Beady eyes watched ▓▓▒░▓ and her accomplice from the surrounding trees, wafts of wormwolf piss drifted across the parking lot, and cloaked shoppers regularly scraped hooded heads on the automatic door. Three generations of the same family worked the long counter, and all three had long since been inured. That much was apparent to anyone with an eye for business.
She walked from the store at an even pace, arms full of packages with strange textures and stranger writing. ▒░▒░░░, her compatriot and near-twin waited outside, staring out into the hungry forest. A warm wind blew through, sending loose tunics fluttering along with their scruffs of oil-black hair. Each mask stayed thankfully firm.
"His hands are sufficiently gilded for our purposes, I would think," said ▓▓▒░▓. She wrenched the cap from one bottle of murky liquid and winced at the bubbling release. Cold, but fouled by some force. Rotted fish may be called a delicacy, but words had their outer limits.
"An apt handler of wealth, but how well does he play the shrew? Your bargaining was a simple rout." ▒░▒░░░ pushed his own ovine mask high enough to drink from the bubbling bottle. An act of vulnerability, especially in such a strange world. ▓▓▒░▓ only did the same once his visage was firmly in place again.
"'twas a fierce battle. The strength of the victor does not prove the weakness of the defeated."
"The outcome may give some hint."
"Do we require a great general then?"
"An apt one, at the least."
"I name him apt! A lamb among sheep, but a lamb all the same." ▓▓▒░▓ drank from the bottle and coughed violently, spending splatters along the dry asphalt. Awful. Vile. Fizzy. "Unless you wish to offer up a better gem for shining?"
"Such a challenge would never cross my lips!"
"You may buzz about until it crosses mine though." Both sheep laughed quietly in the wide, empty lot. They took turns eating salted meats, drinking disgusting beverages, and marveling at the alien starscape overhead. Even on rare nights when the lands of the Howling Pillar went without clouds, the naked sky was dull and empty. What few specks of light shone there were nothing compared to the pinprick tapestry overhead, all so neatly bifurcated from the heavens' dark half.
▓▓▒░▓'s fingers itched fiercely as she watched brighter lights streak across the night. Base to tip, tip to base, as though things crawled laps inside her. Nothing was there though. She had picked them raw enough times to see inside. Scratching offered little solace, but she did it all the same. An old reminder of older punishments.
"Shall we begin the Exarch's edifice then?" asked ▒░▒░░░.
"Even if its key is to be his, the construction is ours. Look at his hands and tell me he has lifted a single brick."
"Still, the matter is of coin. It will bear his name. It will entomb his memory. Is that such a travesty?"
▓▓▒░▓ frowned behind her mask and picked at bandaged fingers. Though the contract offered by the Exarch of the First District was mildly generous, he had been no great patron of their families over ten generations. The sum entrusted to them was minuscule in the tides of his vaults, and any benefits he reaped would far outstrip it. To bear no risk and every reward was hardly respectable business acumin.
▒░▒░░░ slapped her back harder than necessary. "If nothing else, think of it as a grand reunion. Why should we not shepherd this world's tomes back to this world's hands?"
"Has my friend become a librarian?"
"Has my friend misplaced her mind? Doling out adoptions deserves commissions, I would think."
"I would think!"
They laughed again, and something deep in the trees laughed back. Each bookseller fiddled with their clothes, hair, and masks. They were indistinguishable when each made an effort, and the effect was notable. To negotiate with twin sheep unnerved all but the most hardened quartermasters. Book in hand, ▓▓▒░▓ walked to the market's entrance. It parted in her presence.
"Did you want your receipt?" asked the poxed shopkeeper as the pair approached the long counter, passing between shelves stuffed full of fine wares. He looked back and forth between the pair, unsure of who he had dealt with. A bit disappointing that he could not follow the scent of prior business, but he would be workable all the same.
"Please put such minor deals aside," said ▒░▒░░░ in the neutral voice they each settled into.
"They are far beneath your attention," said ▓▓▒░▓, not leaving any pause to invite interruption.
"Unworthy of even your briefest thought."
"Such a grand merchant should only deal in cities."
"Cities and nations."
"Nations and empires."
"Wait," said the young merchant. He held his hand out as if to deflect the words. "Uh, just… just wait? I don't know what you're talking about, okay? We don't care who comes to shop, but you gotta go if you're gonna start being weird."
"Ah, of course, of course," said ▓▓▒░▓.
"We do apologize for squandering your cherished time," said ▒░▒░░░.
"Shall we demonstrate our sincerity?" the booksellers asked each other. Each opened their hands toward the counter, and a shimmering stream of coins spilled from them. Not the peasant metals pretending to be kings that passed for money in this world, but treasure from their own hoards. A meager fee covered by their contract, but the shopkeeper's eyes brightened all the same.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"Merely to offer you a sea of wealth." ▓▓▒░▓ pulled a hardcover book from a satchel.
"An ocean of profits." ▒░▒░░░ placed it on the counter.
"The business opportunity of a hundred lifetimes." She opened the cover of Organizational Symbology.
"A golden river that never dries." He flipped through the printed pages, each bearing the red ink of the Exarch's most prominent magi. A spellbook worked over with new spells.
The shopkeeper stared at the tome. Transfixed, as expected. The pages were but a foundation, the red notations a blueprint. Each invited construction and elaboration. Each would add new rows of living bricks to the Exarch's edifice. All that was required of its components is obedience to the fundamental urges of spending money, earning more, and protecting the grand assemblage of its parts.
"Oh, uh, yeah. Of course." A few strands a greasy drooped over his pale eyes. He blew them away, and they fell back down immediately. "But how can I…?"
"It's straightforward."
"It's simple."
"We couldn't possibly reduce it any further."
"The tome will instruct you on success. The feeling is plain already, is it not?"
"Others will feel the same. Should they not pay handsomely for such secrets?"
"Cast open your accounts." ▓▓▒░▓ leaned forward on the tips of her toes.
"Spend dry your savings." ▒░▒░░░ did the same.
"We gladly offer you these secrets and more for purchase. Think of others' desperation for your knowledge. Their drool at your troves. Buy and resell a few books. A handful, that's all. You would not manage this market, but own it."
"A few more sales, and you might build a mansion."
"More still, a castle."
"So…"
"How many can we mark you down for?" the two sheep asked as one.
The red ink did its work well. Each line tugged open the shopkeeper's eyes and ears. Each pulled away blockages of hesitation and consideration. That he would bear the brunt of failure went unconsidered. That they were strangers to this place went ignored. ▓▓▒░▓ and ▒░▒░░░ watched as he emptied his wallet, then the tiny safe before him. He removed paper bills from a glowing machine in one corner of the shop, then brought bales from a room in the back. Strange money, but its value held all the same.
"Please do burn a flare when you have sold these," said ▓▓▒░▓. "We would be happy to provide more."
"Ecstatic," continued ▒░▒░░░. "A discount may be possible, given sufficient capacity."
The shopkeeper nodded, and nodded, and promised to embark on a grand venture. They left the store to see dawn gently crest over the treeline. An alien sight. A terrifying one, once the furious star crested the mountain line. Fearful, once the illuminated sky loomed so high overhead. They would survive, but ▓▓▒░▓ found the forest a far more comforting canopy in their travels.

The booksellers traveled along the junctures of civilization, avoiding lands of this world's exarchs and their capital cities. ▓▓▒░▓ felt the beacons of wealth deep in her bones, but lords never truly appreciated the free trade of knowledge and capital, let alone their citizen's participation in another's edifice. Sheep often went unseen, but only to the inattentive. So they displayed the books and peddled their wares elsewhere. Small markets in small towns, rife with antiques. Narrow shops in narrower alleys, which dealt exclusively to visitors like themselves. Each buyer made a new brick. Each promised future profits.
A wide and crooked path led them one way along the land, then back along a different path. Not all could pay for books in coin, but trades were possible all the same. In a small village of boxy vehicles, they traded a tome for the burned remains of a god. Even priests would pay when faced with red ink. In the heart of a swamp, a witch traded murky brews for bound pages. Initial profits were never the point. They sowed the seeds of future reapings. One sale would lead to may more. One debt would bloom and blossom with proper care. They were sheep after all, and excellent ones at that. That a wolf hunted behind did not birth the slightest concern, not even as its hunt continued through the seasons.
▓▓▒░▓ and ▒░▒░░░ grew confident as their edifice rose. Brick after brick, stone after stone, the vast pyramid grew and grew. That confidence led them closer to those imposing capitals, closer to the vast whirlpools of wealth they contained. Towering buildings overfull with precious things pulled harder and harder, until their orbit became a tightening spiral. Day after day and sale after sale led them inward and inward, until they stood at the heart of a place called Philadelphia. How could they fail to make a nest for themselves in such an exorbitant cityscape? How could they fail to wring money from it?
The great city's towers were not as imposing as the Howling Pillar itself, but they distracted all the same. The wide roads were not as bustling as ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒'s, but they were far from empty. The pair drifted one way and another, giving each sight proper consideration. Coin flowed from thousands of hands to thousands of others with each second. Goods fell from one to another even faster. An impressive city, but not so impressive that the booksellers failed to notice the wolf drawing nearer to their lair.

"I think it supremely dangerous," said ▓▓▒░▓, voicing the dark feeling churning inside them both. They stood in a dark alleyway beside a tavern, peeking out from its mouth in turns. Each word loosed a frosted breath. Each second brought a new shiver. Cold air suited them not, even when clothed in this world's wares.
"The point of a vast spear. An army of ten-thousand, bound up by a single will."
"The first of a vast stampede, more like. A horde of a hundred thousand, driven by a uniform desire."
▒░▒░░░ sniffed and snuffled. "The Exarch will be displeased to hear of such a thing. It may seek to challenge our construction."
"What about us? Displeasure is such a gentle thing. There are worse, you know."
"I'll not be worried so long as we are well defended. The wolf may serve well as a brick."
"Not with a single tome, I fear."
"Not one, but the full of our stock below. That may be sufficient binding."
"May indeed."
"A sufficient may, I hope. Unless you think a better tool is available?"
"Retreat is not without merit. For now, or forever."
"An opportunity for the Exarch to flay us, perhaps. I would not wish to face that wrath."
"Could we not…?"
"If only." He sniffed loudly.
"But what if we…?"
"Truly, if we could." He snuffled louder.
▓▓▒░▓ scowled under her mask. Were the Exarch not so consumed with pointless greed, he would be happy with what they had already erected. Were he burdened by the remotest concern, he would understand their predicament. If only both were not so clearly the case. If only.
"Danger, then," she said. Her fingers itched fiercely, worse than ever before, but she clasped them firmly on her friend's mask anyway. They would persist so long as they remained together.
"Danger," he said, doing the same.
The two spanned the gap between their spot and the wolf in moments. A moment that stretched into seconds, then minutes. A trip that wore harder than a week of walking. Anything to avoid worse dangers though. ▓▓▒░▓ considered their hunter as they emerged in the space behind her. Scrawnier than she would have predicted, even in a quilted coat. Bloodier than she would have imagined, even for a spearhead. The world felt wretched and rotting in her presence. All the more reason to quickly enact a binding. Only then would they be safe.
"You are a knight errant, are you not?" she asked the red hound. All would be well. Soon.

« Side Story | Maim the Sky, Slay the Sun | Side Story »


Florence's room had become the most recent casualty of her ongoing occult project, which she had relocated from the site's thaumatology lab after one too many interruptions by inquisitive researchers.

NOTE: This is Part 8 of 9 of the series, The Phoenix, The Nightingale, & The Magpies.
If you want to avoid spoilers, it is recommended that you instead start at the beginning with Minneapolis Burns.

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February 1, 1990
Site-246
Florence's room had become the most recent casualty of her ongoing occult project, which she had relocated from the site's thaumatology lab after one too many interruptions by inquisitive researchers.
What little furniture there was had been pushed up against the walls. The center of the room was now occupied by an intricate pattern of concentric circles, interlocking triangles, and logarithmic spirals, all drawn with painstaking precision. Interspersed among this arcane geometry were various tallow candles, painted pebbles, crystal mirrors, and other, more esoteric items — a lead cup (filled with blood), a silver chalice (filled with water), a brass bell (clapper removed), and an eight-track cassette tape (a bootleg recording of the unreleased songs from the B-52s' collaboration with David Byrne). These had been placed at seemingly irregular but carefully calculated points throughout the room to serve as focus items, backlash sinks, and energy channels. It had taken her weeks to calculate the geometry, and several months to perfect it.
At the center of this perfect pattern sat Florence, eyes closed as she meditated. Resting in her lap was the necklace that Westbrook had given her last month as a birthday present. The silver chain was actually made of tungsten carbide — "It has a higher melting point," he had explained — but the pendant was real Oregon sunstone. The pale orange gemstone had been cut and polished to maximize its natural aventurescence, so that it almost seemed to burn when the light caught it. It was this gem that she focused on now.
She still had difficulty with subtle magic, and the enchantments she intended to place on the gem required a level of finesse she had never even attempted before, and likely would never attempt again. Even after months of preparation, she figured she still only had slightly better than even odds of pulling off the working successfully — but at least if it failed, the focusing geometry would contain the backlash.
The working itself was disappointingly anticlimactic. Keeping her eyes closed, but still seeing by Observing, she cut her thumb with the edge of a fingernail and held it over the silver chalice. A single drop of blood, crimson and thrumming with power, rolled across her skin and dripped into the water. The lines of the pattern glowed softly and briefly, the candle flames burned black for a moment, and the crippled bell chimed twice before playing a short snippet of "Adios Desconocida".
Florence opened her eyes to see Westbrook standing in the doorway, staring at her curiously.
"Hi." She coughed to clear her throat. "How long have you been standing there?"
He shrugged. "Not too long. Didn't seem like it would be a good idea to interrupt."
"Good call." She uncrossed her legs and stretched.
"Did it work?"
She held the necklace up and examined it. "I think so. Won't know for certain until I try charging it."
"Does that mean you can tell me what it is you've been doing now?"
Westbrook had known about the project for some time, but she had been reticent about telling him the details — in case verbalizing what it was she was trying to do would jeopardize the outcome. It was a fear born of superstition, but that didn't make it unfounded. After all, if she believed it, it could affect her magic.
"It's…" She hesitated, trying to find a way to explain it non-technically. "Crystals have an incredible capacity for storing occult energies, if you enchant them properly."
"So it's a battery?"
"Not quite. It's more of a recorder." She stood up and started picking her way across the room to him, stepping carefully over the lines on the floor. "You know how someone's aura can tell you a lot about their mood? Well, this is a similar principle. If I've done it right, this should be able to capture emotional states."
"That's it?" He almost seemed upset.
"Emotions have a lot of power." She was standing in front of him now. "On the bridge, when I was fighting the psychic, she tried to use them as a weapon. To overwhelm me with despair and loneliness until it destroyed me. She almost succeeded."
He frowned. "So this is…?"
"Armor. A shield. I'm going to charge this up with as many positive emotions as I can. Memories that remind me of who I am and what I'm fighting for. An emotional anchor, to give me something to hold onto." Another way to externalize my truth, she thought.
His eyes lit up with understanding. "I can see why that would be worth the time you've spent on this."
"It's not quite finished," she said.
"Oh?"
"Like I said, I still need to charge it." She leaned in and kissed him. When she pulled away, she whispered in his ear, "And I could use some help with that part."

February 16, 1990
Site-246
She was in the thaumaturgy gym when she noticed it.
It was subtle — so subtle that she would have missed it if she had been doing anything else. She had been meditating on the amulet, Observing the complex web of energy that flowed through and within it. Now that she had started charging it, the enchantments on the gem were readily apparent to her occult senses. She was pleased to see that they were flawless. Maybe she was getting the hang of subtle stuff after all.
The energy within the gem was very similar to her own aura — in a sense, it was her own aura, simply frozen at a particular moment in time. Normally, her own energies were subconsciously filtered out when she Observed, one of the countless bits of quiet meddling the human brain performs on its own sensory inputs. The similarity of the gem's charge had forced her to focus on these normally obscured energies, deliberately turning her occult senses towards what was usually a blind spot in her Observation. It felt a bit like crossing her eyes to look at the end of her nose.
It was a rare moment where she was directly aware of her own EVE signature, and that was why she was able to see it. In someone else's aura, she would have said it was indicative of an emotional swing or the start of an evocation, but she knew that she wasn't doing either of those things.
It was a sudden, abnormal spike of EVE, pitched strongly Sharp — a burst of creative energy.

March 3, 1990
Duluth, Minnesota
They were on the pier once again. It offered a convenient place to talk away from the closely monitored confines of Site-246 — isolated enough that they could speak without codes, and surrounded by enough background noise from the hubbub of the city that they could do so free from surveillance. As a result, it had become their favorite location for holding conversations of a personal nature.
Florence was looking south towards the Twin Ports. This early into March, winter hadn't yet relinquished its icy grip upon the lakes. Nevertheless, the lake freighters were stirring from hibernation — she could see the distant dots of crew swarming across the deck of a thousand-footer, preparing to break free from the cold confines of winter layup. Somewhere out on the open lake, she knew, the Coast Guard icebreaker Mackinaw was forcing its way west to clear the shipping lanes out of Duluth. Soon, the pier would be busy with activity as the shipping season began anew, and they would lose their pocket of isolation.
For the moment though — and for as long as it lasted — they could speak freely.
She had wanted to talk to him about what she had seen in her aura, but she had been waiting — waiting to be sure, waiting while she decided what to say, and waiting for the right time. In the end, it had been Westbrook who had asked to speak on the pier, although now that they were there he was also struggling to voice his thoughts.
After standing there together in silence for several minutes, she finally started to speak. "Cody—"
He held up a hand to cut her off. "Wait. Please."
"I need to tell you something."
"So do I," he replied. "Something that might make you reconsider."
She borrowed one of his favorite mannerisms and quirked an eyebrow at him.
He looked down, as if he would find the words he wanted carved into the ice below. "I haven't been honest with you."
"Is that supposed to be a surprise? I know you've been keeping secrets." She shrugged. "I figured that if it was important, you would tell me eventually."
He continued staring at the ice, expression inscrutable. "Do you remember the first time we spoke?"
"Of course. Kind of hard to forget being handcuffed to a chair." She smiled wryly, trying to inject a bit of levity into the moment, but stopped when she saw him wince.
"That was the fifteenth time we had that conversation."
She froze, all thoughts of levity gone from her mind. The color seemed to fade from the world as she stared at Westbrook. She felt a coldness in her chest that had nothing to do with the weather.
"What?" The word slipped out of its own volition.
"We had you in that room for almost two whole days, trying to figure out exactly what to say to win you over, amnesticizing you after every failed attempt." His voice was quiet and steady, which did nothing to reduce the weight of what he was saying. "You actually figured it out on the — I think it was the ninth session? Almost got Corwin before they could put you under again."
The coldness started spreading through her veins as she continued staring at him. "What about McKenna? He wouldn't—"
Westbrook cut her off with a single, mirthless laugh. "Agent 'Charles McKenna' received a commendation for his performance as a deep cover infiltrator embedded in the Lake Ghosts." He shook his head. "I told you, Flo, we had contingencies in place. The only way you were ever walking out of that room was as a Foundation agent."
The cold had filled her completely by now, leaving her numb. When she spoke, her voice was flat. "When else?" When else had they amnesticized her? How many times had they made her forget?
And hanging over that question, an unvoiced Sword of Damocles, was another, more troubling thought. She had no way of knowing what she had forgotten — did she trust him to tell her the truth?
"Twice." He didn't hesitate, but that meant nothing. "The first was just after you were recruited. They had to fuck around with the clocks a lot during the first few weeks to cover up the missing days. Someone slipped up and tipped you off to the time discrepancy."
"You lose track of time, not being able to see the sun." Her voice was almost a whisper as she recalled her words from four years earlier.
He nodded. "Exactly."
That was the real reason that Site-246 had been reactivated, she realized. More than any other site, it provided a controlled environment, entirely cut off from the outside world. Within it, the Foundation had absolute control. They could change the length of the day. They could listen to everything she said and watch everything she did. Hell, they could probably flood her room with gas and amnesticize her in her sleep.
And she would have never known if Westbrook hadn't told her.
She frowned. "You said it happened twice. What was the second?"
When he hesitated in giving her an answer, she knew it was going to be bad. When he finally spoke, the tone of his voice only served to confirm that. "A little under two years ago, you found out about the Nightingale Contingency by accident. I still have nightmares about that day."
"What happened?"
"You… you went nuclear. People died. I thought you were going to die too. They would have killed you rather than let you escape."
"Who?" Her voice was quiet. "Who did I kill?"
"You don't remember them." He laughed softly, almost hysterically. "That's why Devlin hates you, you know. He never liked you in the first place, but after that… he thought you should have been terminated then. He was going to do it too."
"What stopped him?"
"I got to you first." He shuddered at the memory. "I still don't know how I managed it, but I talked you down. Calmed you down enough to get close to you. And then, while you were distracted, I stabbed you with a tranquilizer." His voice started to crack. "When you woke up, you didn't remember any of it. Everything was back to normal — except it wasn't. Most of the task force opted for amnestics, so they could still work with you in the field. But I had to remember. I had to remember what you did, and what I had to do to stop you. To save your life. And I couldn't ever let you know about it, otherwise it might happen again."
Her stomach clenched. She had always known exactly how volatile she could be, and she knew, in an academic sense, what tended to happen when she got angry. It wasn't even the deaths that upset her. It was that she couldn't remember. These had been people she had worked with, people she might have even been friends with, and now they were gone. Erased from history. All to keep her on a leash.
Just how far was the Foundation willing to go to keep her under their thumb?
One question remained.
"Westbrook—" Not Cody now. Maybe not ever again. "—what is the Nightingale Contingency?" She already had a vague idea — there weren't many things that could make her that angry — but she needed to hear him say it.
He hesitated. "I… you won't—"
"I won't like it? Too bad. You're past the point of no return now."
He stared down at his hands. "They knew that the way you were recruited would leave you without any real loyalty to the Foundation. The Contingency was meant to correct that. To provide a means of control."
"How?"
He shook his head and looked away from her.
"Look at me." The force of her voice caused him to flinch, but he obeyed. "Tell me how."
"Me." He refused to meet her gaze. "I was the Contingency. I was supposed to get close to you, make you care about me. Create an emotional dependency that would ensure your loyalty."
There was absolute silence on the pier.
Florence clenched her fists. Now she was angry. "Tell me, all those times we had sex, did you ever care about me, or were you just fucking me as part of your job?"
His expression was pained. "Yes. I mean—"
She wasn't listening. "God, you were probably putting it in your reports to Corwin—"
"—not at first—"
"—did you have a fucking quota—"
"—actually do care about you—"
"—or was that just a perk of being a honeypot—"
"Flo!" His eyes were wide now, desperate. "Flo, I'm sorry. I cannot tell you how sorry I am. I've wanted to tell you the truth for so long, but… you were happy, and you were safe. I didn't want to upset you. I didn't want to give Devlin a reason to take a shot at you."
"Then why are you telling me now?" She wasn't angry anymore. She was beyond angry. It gave her a degree of mental clarity, a sense of singular purpose she had rarely experienced.
"I couldn't keep lying to you," he said, finally meeting her gaze. "I love you, Flo."
"And you think that makes it okay?" She shook her head. "No. You don't get off that easily. The power of love doesn't make it all better. You lied to me, you manipulated me, you used me for sex, and then you have the gall to think that saying 'I love you' will somehow fix all that."
"Flo—"
"My name. Is. Florence." She willed power into her tattoo, enough that he could just see it glowing between her glove and her sleeve. "I'm leaving now, Agent Westbrook. If you try to stop me, I will kill you."
Florence had already turned and started stalking away down the pier when he called out, "They'll never stop hunting you!"
She stopped and looked back towards him. "I'll kill them too."
He shook his head. "You know they'll get you eventually. All it takes is one bullet you don't see coming."
"So you're threatening me now, is that it? Declarations of love didn't work, so now it's on to the death threats?"
"Florence, I'm trying to save your life."
"By putting me back in a cage."
"No! Do you think I would tell you all of this and expect you to just walk back to the Foundation?" He shook his head again. "I have a way for us to get out."
She stared at him coldly. "Us?"
He winced. "I thought… I thought we could get away, start over."
"There is no we anymore, Westbrook."
He nodded slowly. "Just you then. I can get you out. I can make sure the Foundation never comes after you."
"How?"
"Kartal," he said. "With the UIU. You remember her?"
"I remember she punched you in the face, so I already trust her more than you."
He ignored the barb. "I've called in every favor I have with her to set this up. We'll fake your death, rendezvous with her on a Coast Guard icebreaker, and then she'll make sure you vanish. Get you somewhere the Foundation can't reach you."
"You've already planned this with her?"
He nodded.
She shook her head. "God, I can't believe you. You didn't even think to ask me about what I wanted."
"I couldn't—"
"Shut up. I need to think."
She looked down and shut her eyes. She wanted to scream. To run. To fight. She was good at fighting. It was what she had always done.
Through closed eyes, she stared at her aura and the anomaly that had been growing in it.
She had fought before, it was true. But that was when she had nothing to lose. Now…
She couldn't risk it.
She would have to trust Westbrook, one last time. How could she not?
She opened her eyes and looked up at him.
"How soon can Kartal be ready?"
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