« La Rue Macabre »

The thing about a city like La Rue Macabre is that legends and rumors spread like wildfire. When a fishing boat said it would be the first to chart out the whole of La Rue, many laughed at the crew for dreaming big. When they left port however, no one would hear back from them for years. It was not till the Duke of Macabre ventured too far away from the chartered areas that they discovered what remained of the first crew. To this day, those broken shards of wood and documents are put in a museum for those to learn about why most dare not venture out from the city.
When the remains returned to the city, the sailors and captains began to speculate. Some say that they merely tested the waters too much and paid the price, while others say that an outside force destroyed them to protect the treasures within the swamps. How some say that there is treasure within La Rue was anybody's guess, but with rising reports of alligators the size of a small yacht being talked about within the city limits, some have started to believe in the stories told by drunken sailors and theorists who come out in search of the next big theory.
The Donkey's Ass floated over the depths of these swamps. Josephine looked far into the landscape and saw a few lights dotted around here and there, each one twinkling like stars in the night sky. It made Josephine ponder on the idea that people would rather live far away from the mainland than living within the city. They would see the odd spark of lightning that could be attributed to a thunderstorm had it not come from those lights, some gentle and small while others zapped with the brightness turned up to proper lightning.
Was it because they needed a safe space to practice their magic in a safe environment? Did they desire this hermit lifestyle away from a well known and kept city, preferring the quietness of this realm? Or were they forced into this place for the safety of the citizens of La Rue, deemed too dangerous from possible misuse of magic?
Those kinds of stories were what piqued Josephine's interest: the stories of the mad and the curious. Those who would rather hide than remain in the open, what secrets would they hold? Josephine shook their head to get rid of these thoughts and turned to head back inside. As they did so, they noticed that their dwarf captain, Black Jaw, was busy tying down several ropes and knots. He looked up to see the Mekhanic's cloak gently billowing in the wind, seeing different cogs and gears ticking along in their place.
"My eyes are up here captain," Josephine said in their emotion-less voice. Black Jaw stood up and dusted himself off while Josephine knelt down to inspect the rope work. "What are you doing out here anyway? Performing ship duties?"
"Oh this?" the dwarf let go of the rope in his hand, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud. "I'm jus' lettin' out some bait and stuff to distract the local wildlife."
"I take it the natural wildlife is not to be taken lightly?"
"Heh, you ain't heard the stories of the Gatorpeople here?"
Josephine shook their head, Black Jaw sighed and walked off to the cabin door. Josephine followed and saw their boyfriend, Benjamin, sitting in the corner. Since they had departed La Rue's port, the connection between them and the network was scarce at best. For Josephine, it was nothing more than a minor nuisance, but for Benjamin… it was harder for him to adjust to the quietness without the Noosphere.
Benjamin didn't even notice Josephine as they walked in, he was just staring off into space, attempting to access it for the seventeenth time today. They would grow more worried about their partner with each passing day, making them wonder if Ben was falling into depression or desperation. Sure, he and Josephine would share moments together while on this trip that were nice. Losing access to the Noosphere for so long, however, left Benjamin in a slump, something that not even Josephine could pull him out of.
The dwarf took Josephine to the kitchen area and pulled out a six pack of beer from the fridge. He offered one to them but Josephine shook their head. Black Jaw sat on the desk and popped open the top with a flick of his finger and slurped it down slowly, savoring the taste.
"Gatorpeople." Black Jaw spoke after chugging down the first bottle, chucking the bottle behind him into the recycling bin. "Are perhaps some of the most dangerous beings out there. They are very reclusive and only send out their most… acceptable sorts out to La Rue and even then, people stay away from them in case one decides that you look tasty."
"Why does Cotton Eye Joe keep them around then?" Josephine asks, sitting down across from Black Jaw and holding their hands together to show patience. "From what I gathered from our elders, the Swamp God does not allow violence in his realm. From what I've seen, the fleshcrafters do not conduct their usual rituals when they live here. Certainly holding them on a leash."
"Aye, but Joe has arrangements made with the Gatorpeople that they in themselves become legends and stories passed around town till no one knows which one is right."
"Such as?"
Black Jaw sat back and popped open a second bottle with the use of the table edge. He looked up to the ceiling, his eyes glossed over with something that Josephine saw once or twice in the faraway gazes of old people that pridefully recalled stories of old. Black Jaw sipped as he looked back and spoke softly, a thing that dwarves are rarely known for unless money is somewhere involved in the process.
"Hmmm… well, there is the story that Cotton Eye Joe is not the actual God of this place. Legend has it that he's a usurper that overthrew the Old Swamp God and claimed this place when that Civil War broke out."
"Impossible. Records would have suggested that this place had a completely differ-"
"HA!" Black Jaw laughed out loud before sitting forward holding his chest. His breathing became ragged and weaker, making him breathe harder. "Sorry but there are not any records detailing that. If it would be that easy to figure out when La Rue was made then half of its traditions would die instantly. Nah, I bet that some Gatorpeople came into La Rue and made a great big stink about how they weren't running things."
"Then what do you think happened?"
"I think that Cotton Eye Joe keeps them around cause he felt sorry for them. Think about it, New York flushed hundreds and hundreds of alligators in like the 80s or so. Where did they go? Here in La Rue."
"So what your saying is that these 'Gatorpeople' are actually alligators from over several hundred miles that magically appeared over here, yes? I have never heard a more preposterous story before that"
"Says the mechanical person who worships a god made of rust and broken bolts."
Josephine glared at Black Jaw as the boat swayed slightly, causing Black Jaw to sharpen up. He got up and rushed to kill off the motors just down the stairs while Josephine listened carefully. An odd light bash against the wood here or there caused the boat to rock harder, the sounds of something fierce and primitive just on the other side of the thin walls adding more to Josephine's… not fear, they lost that feeling when they replaced their frontal lobe with a piece of tech that could let them access the Noosphere. No, it was complication and stress being added to their calculations.
After the sounds left, Josephine looked around the room. Black Jaw was looking out the porthole, seeing if whatever was causing the noise was still out there. He appeared to have sobered up, his eyes alert and scanning for danger while it was quiet and still. Benjamin, now alert to his surroundings, looked at Josephine worried. It was obvious that he was worried, even if his dimly lit blue eyes didn't show how scared he was.
The boat suddenly lurched forward, which caused the occupants to stumble forward and head over heels. Josephine clenched their mechanical feet to grab onto the timber to stop themselves from falling over while the others continued to roll to the side of the boat. Black Jaw could be heard from near the fridge after being thrown around. Benjamin was still in his seat but he certainly felt the force, on account that he was massaging his neck. Josephine wished they had taken medical training, but sadly the past is behind them and all they could simply do was comfort Benjamin.
"What's going on Black Jaw?" Josephine asked the dwarf, currently struggling to get back up. They noticed that he had made it as far as the door and finally got their balance back. He struggled to remain upright as he turned to speak.
"Its the holding line!" Black Jaw shouted, trying to get out of the room while remaining stable. "We gotta untie it or cut it off! Otherwise we're going to be dragged off to Heimdall knows where!"
Joesphine picked up the dwarf and threw him back next to their boyfriend. "Look after him! I'm going to cut the anchor off!"
Black Jaw was about to speak out loud his objections but he knew it was pointless. Instead he tended to Benjamin with some exercise to handle whiplash, telling Benjamin to sit still and shut up. Josephine smiled before they began their walk out of the doorway, their feet grabbing onto the timber steps as hard they could before they made it top side.
As soon as they made it top side, Josephine looked around. The trees were speeding past the boat at a very fast pace. Inside their mind, they eliminated the thought of jumping off and several other options of escaping this situation. At the moment, Josephine looked around to find the rope Black Jaw used to tie down the anchor. It took them less then three seconds to identify which rope belonged to the anchor and stomped their way over to the point.
Josephine flicked their wrist and slides out their sword — a xiphos blade, forged in the fires of Ancient Greece during their golden era of Mekhane — and gripped it tight in their hand. They raised it high above their head and brought it down with as much strength as they could onto this rope. After three swings with their blade, the rope snapped and the anchor dropped into the watery depths below. The boat slowed down gradually till they were floating adrift in calmer winds.
They breathed out a sigh and opened up their compartment to place their sword back in when they noticed that something was on the deck with them. Josephine turned slowly to see a massive creature standing on the deck, body turning left and right to look around it. The pair made eye contact for a brief second before Josephine got into their battle stance.
Josephine's eyes adjusted to the different light to see the monster before them. It stood as a bulky figure, no shirt or armor was visible but it was clear that this thing was strong. The monster had scales that would often be seen in a mural of a dragon, and muscles that look like they could crush a man with ease. It had a viscous look in its eyes but also one of caution. It was studying Josephine like an engineer would to a hardware problem, figuring out how to best solve the issue.
The creature mimicked them, lacking a weapon it attempted to copy them as well as it could. The creature snarled at them, taunting Josephine to come strike it first. Taking the initiative, they made the first move. Josephine's feet rushed ahead as they brought their blade close to go for a stab. The creature brought its tail in front of it to shield it from the obvious attack.
The feint worked as Josephine shifted their weight to one side as they brought their leg into a roundhouse kick. The mekhanic's foot made a solid thud as it connected with the rough skin of the monster's tail, causing it to recoil as Josephine pressed on with the offense. They used both the momentum and recoil to throw it all into a slashing motion. The blade had cut into the tail and a quick look at the blade told Josephine all they needed to know.
They ran forth once more to slice at the creature, only to be blindsided by a punch. They had been thrown head over heels, and off the edge, only staying on the boat after grabbing the ledge at the last possible second. As they slowly pulled themselves up, Josephine looked up to see a second creature of roughly the same size as the one they had fought. The creatures grabbed Josephine and hauled them over the side. Josephine tried to free themselves from the strong grip of these creatures before they saw Benjamin and Black Jaw walk out to the deck, hands held high above their heads.
"Tis better to go quietly then lose ourselves out here," Black Jaw explained before Josephine spoke out about the choice of surrender. It made sense logically, just a major shock for them to get over. Black Jaw turned to look up at one of the beings and spoke loudly. "Listen here, you overgrown lizard, I wanna speak to your chieftain now."
"Why should we listen to you?" the Gatorman growled loudly, gripping tightly on Josephine's arm to the point that it was causing the arm to crack a bit. "You are nothing more than Small-Blood. Small-Blood are inferior to us."
"I am no 'small blood' Gatorman," Black Jaw said through gritted teeth. "I am a simple captain with his cargo. All I ask is we talk with th-"
The one gripping Josephine's arm tight laughed out loud and forced the other Gatorman to laugh with a smack on the arm. The pair then straightened up and looked at Black Jaw with a glint in their eyes. Josephine spent enough time with gangsters and greedy nomads to know what it means. They tried to stand up, despite the pressure the two strong Gatormen holding them down, and gets their feet onto the gator's foot.
"HA!" laughed the rough monster, not learning from their encounter with Josephine. "I'm wearing special boots! Can't see how you thought this through, really."
Without uttering a word, Josephine's foot clenches down and crushes the Gatorman's foot. With a scream of monstrous proportions, he released his grip on Josephine. This gave Josephine the chance to bring up their other leg to smack the one cracking their arm, impacting straight into the groin. It forced the two to release their hold on them, crying out in pain from these strikes.
As the two Gatormen recoiled in pain, Black Jaw and Benjamin charged forward and tackled one of them with their combined power. Josephine, meanwhile, brought up their good arm and repeatedly switched from punching to kicking to punching again. Not letting up on their foe, they kept pushing on till the Gatorman was on the edge. When they noticed that he was on the edge of the boat, Josephine brought their leg up to kick them off for good.
Yelps and growls from their left caused them to face the remaining Gatorman, who was on his knees as Benjamin kicks while Black Jaw puts all of his weight on top of the beast. Josephine approached and axe kicked their foot onto his snout. They then clamped down hard on the snout to keep him down while Black Jaw ran off to get the additional rope needed to tie down the Gatorman.
After making sure the bonds were secure, Black Jaw had let out a sigh of relief. He rubbed his arms and legs just in case the Gatorman got him with something. Benjamin grabbed a hold of the side to check the waters while Josephine loosens their grip on his snout. Josephine walked over to Benjamin and placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him. After all, he was never a fighter, he was just a tech supporter.
"Hey Benjamin?" they asked as sincerely as they could despite the metallic voice that Josephine produces. Benjamin looked back up at them, his blue eyes glowing in the dark and looking into Josephine's red mechanical eyes. "Are… are you okay?"
Benjamin didn't speak. The only thing that Benjamin did was close his eyes, and cry into Josephine's chest. Sobbing noises came from him as he held them as close as possible. Instead of speaking, Josephine held Benjamin close, for as long as they can. They raised their hand up to Benjamin's head and stroked it gently. Even without skin to feel the motion, Josephine still felt a connection with him. It may not have been what some would call true love since they were mechanical and had no experience but to them, it was love.
Black Jaw interrupted the two lovers as he made a loud hearty laugh. He turned over to Josephine and pointed at the Gatorman below his boot, squirming like a lizard trying to get away from a threat. Despite its size and strength, it is clearly not agile enough to slither out of the rope. Josephine walked over and brought their foot to bear on the Gatorman's snout.
"Hello," Josephine brought up their hood and looked down at the Gatorman. They put their hood on to only illuminate their bright red eyes. They didn't want to mess with the voice, for it brought out a sinister tone despite their metallic sounding voice being neutral. "Tell me, what brought you here? Answer me honestly, and I will spare you."
"Machine-Borne!" the Gatorman snarled at Josephine, struggling against his bonds. "You will not get my tribe's location from me! Never!"
Josephine looked over to their blade and walked over to pick it up. Gazing at the crimson dripping slowly down, they brought a finger up to the blade to wipe it away. Judging from the amount that was there, they must have cut deep into the monster that boarded the boat. They turned and strutted over to the Gatorman and placed the blade on his head.
"I will not ask again."
To further prove their point, Josephine brought the blade down a bit to allow it to cut between the Gatorman's scales on his neck. His face was showing discomfort. Of course, Josephine would stop soon. They just want to see how far they can go before something bad happens. Either this gets cut short by the Swamp God, Cotton Eye Joe, manifesting before them and exact punishment or more Gatormen appear. Or the prisoner chooses death over helping the enemy. Whichever helps their captive prisoner not tell them where to go.
"Alright!" the Gatorman snarled again, this time less angry and more defeated. "I'll take you to our camp. Just… please spare us, we were only hunting."
"What? No, that's not what we are after."
The Gatorman looked up confused at Josephine, before turning his attention to Black Jaw and struggled once more. Josephine calculated in exactly 3.43 seconds the possible options and percentages of said options before Josephine brought their sword down on the Gatorman.
As the Gatorman sat up and massaged his hands, finally free from their bonds, Josephine placed the blade back in their arm compartment. Josephine and the Gatorman stared at each other for some time before Benjamin speaks up. His voice filled with not just determination but also compassion and kindness.
"Hey Gatorman?" he asked the large reptile loudly but also not loud enough to cause him to do something rash. "We are willing to let you go if you can help us get to where we need to go."
"Where's that then, machine-borne? As I already said, I am not taking you to my tribe for your citadel and your expansion."
Benjamin shook his head and pulled out a crude drawing of a map. The same one that Josephine and Black Jaw was staring at to see where they need to go, only to get nothing but headaches due to how badly it was drawn. The same one that the old man from La Rue had given them in exchange for a fan.
"We only seek passage to an Elm tree. It would be different from the other trees here."
The Gatorman nods as he looks down the bow of the ship. He started by turning his head around one way, then the other. Then the Gatorman looked over to the rest of the crew before pointing in a general direction, indicating where to go. Black Jaw checked his maps and walked up to the Gatorman, indicating something about currents and bushes before being shushed.
"I know these swamps," said the Gatorman with a hint of pride in his voice. "The paths and secrets that you flesh-borne do not go cause of doubt. So when I say we go this way, we go this way."
"Now hold on there," Black Jaw interjected, confusion mixing into his words. "Why down there? We're at a high altitude! No, we go this way because —"
As the two argued about the correct course, Josephine analysed the situation and pondered back to the huts and small lights in the distance. They wondered why would they rather live outside safety and comfort of the La Rue city. They wondered why they should take the risk of roaming Gatorpeople, the ever-changing waves that would work against them, to perhaps other dangers within the confines of La Rue's swamp. What could such a life bring them here?
They looked to see Benjamin by their side, and stroked his head. They took him below the deck and put him in his seat. Wrapping him in a blanket, Josephine gave him a kiss on the cheek before they too fell asleep.

« The Mekhanics of La Rue Part 1 | The Mekhanics of La Rue Part 2


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"The Moloch Mentality"
Moloch the thoroughly unpleasant!

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2021

January
Site-36: Banaskantha District, Gujarat, Republic of India

"Day Trippers requesting permission to land."
"Pad 4 is lit and ready, Epsilon-43."
Chief Delfina Ibanez watched the Indian landscape rise up to greet her. The doors of the heavily modified Sea King helicopter were open, and a warm breeze carried a hint of mint tinged with honey into the cabin.
"Myrtle," one of her agents remarked.
"Eucalyptus, specifically," another responded. Ibanez cocked an eyebrow at him, and he shrugged. "Botany hobby."
As the chopper touched down, a man in a labcoat marched towards it from a towering, nondescript white structure. Ibanez hopped onto the tarmac to greet him.
"Vending machine repairman makes good!" she yelled over the dying rotors, flashing a huge, bright grin.
Azad Banerjee, Director of Site-36, laughed. "You could've sent a card, instead of an MTF."

"So, what's new at 36? Find any awful garbage best left forgotten lately?"
Banerjee sighed as they entered the foyer. "People only think of us as the Site with the murder statue."
"Nobody thinks of you as the Site with the murder statue, Azad. They think of you as the Site with the baby murder statue, and honestly, that's fair."
"Well, the baby murder statue has been dead for years." They headed past the front desk, into the containment wing. "Maybe they'd have advertised that fact, if it hadn't involved a Horizon Initiative agent breaking in and decomming an anomaly under their stupid noses."
Ibanez knew where she was going, and Banerjee had to hurry to keep up with her. Most people did, and most people found this surprising, since she was barely five feet tall. Delfina Ibanez was the ur-model for moving like you had a purpose.
A black scrawl on the tiled wall, what looked like permanent marker, gave her temporary pause: "To sustain oneself at the expense of both divinity and humanity is to make oneself a feast of sin."
She pointed at it as they passed. "No budget for inspirational posters?"
He sighed. "Graffiti artist on the loose. My security chief's looking into it. Lots of heavy consciences around here; some people think 36 is a punishment detail." He shrugged. "They might even be right. Hey, speaking of punishment, how's Phil doing?"
"He's dating his boss."
Banerjee whistled. "Must be a different Phil." He shook his head. "Alright. What do you know about us, besides our taste in exotic statuary?"
"Assume nothing."
"If that's your motto, it's a good one." They started moving again. "Well, we're a dual-purpose facility like 43. This is the MTF deployment centre for South Asia, and a containment, monitoring and storage facility for anything with religious significance. We've got altars to Ba'al, Daevic obelisks, and pope-on-a-rope."
"Pope-on-a-rope?"
"Everybody else calls it Soap of a Pope, but I'm a poet at heart. It's a really good soap, which looks like a Pope."
She grimaced. "Dunno why I expected religious artifacts to be less on-the-nose. It tracks."
"They're not all that obtuse. We've got a lot of very esoteric subjects here, not to mention an extensive collection of anomalous literature."
"I thought Site-91 had the occult library."
"Did I say we have a library? We have a collection. And it isn't occult, it's anomalous. These books don't teach you how to make awful things happen, they cause awful things to happen. They need real containment; putting any of them in the library at 91 would be like bunking a fox in a henhouse."
Azad Banerjee was tall, dark and handsome, so they made a marked contrast as they strolled the halls together. Except for the 'handsome' part. We have that in common. When she'd last seen him, five years ago, he'd been a computer technician in an orange jumpsuit. The labcoat suited him much better.
Actually, wait a second. "Why are you wearing a labcoat? You're a tech guy."
Banerjee hooked his thumbs under the coat's lapels and tugged it outwards like a pair of suspenders. "Gotta look the part. Site Directors are usually hard science doctors or doctor-doctors, and the grunts don't really 'get' my doctorate in Computer Sciences."
Ibanez glared up at him in mock indignation. "Speaking as Queen of the Grunts, you're underestimating us."
He looked down at her. "Probably because you're so far beneath me."
She grinned. "You wish."
He grinned. "Maybe."
That exchange killed the briefing stone dead, and the intense awkwardness lingered as they exited the containment wing. An unholy caterwauling arose from the last chamber they passed; it began as a throaty male bellowing, and ended as a woman sobbing.
"Friend of yours?" she asked.
"Predecessor. Magical power corrupts, magically."

Banerjee led her to the control room, which looked and sounded much how she imagined ETTRA central at Area-09 would: wall-to-wall terminals, dozens of techs, and a persistent susurrus of conversation both in-person and electronic.
"Want to hook your MTF up to the grid?" Banerjee asked.
She shook her head. "Keep it a wild card." She gestured at the impressive acreage of equipment. "Pretty high-tech for religious stuff. What gives?"
Banerjee stood a little taller. "We don't do mumbo-jumbo at 36. No thaumaturges. Our computer network can implement thaumic rituals to a far higher degree of precision and efficacy; the Automated Exorcism System keeps all the artifacts functionally inert, minute by minute, day by day. The people you see here are responsible for managing its redundant systems."
"Neat. But how can a computer do magic?"
"The Everhart Resonator on the bottom sublevel turns a portion of our geothermal energy into thaumic energy, enough to power all the exorcisms we'd ever want with enough left over to… bend the rules of information technology a little." He smirked. "You haven't written code until you've written very slightly, very subtly magical code."
"I haven't written code, full stop. So… I guess that's the tour?"
"Yeah-huh."
"Then I guess I'm ready. Where's the lucky winner?"
"In his quarters, waiting for the call. What do you need from me before we get started?"
Ibanez considered for a moment. She took out her pocket PDA, tapped a few buttons, and turned it to face him. "I need you to tell me how to pronounce this name."

Roman Vasylyshyn paced back and forth, further wearing down a visible rut in the carpet of his dormitory. From time to time, when he couldn't help it, he flopped down on the bed and refreshed his SCiPNET inbox. Once or twice he rested his face on the flat keyboard, and sobbed. He thumped the sheets with both fists. He rolled onto the floor and lay there, trying not to hyperventilate.
It hadn't been a great year.
Ping. The sound he'd been anticipating, and dreading, for days. He sprang to his feet, pulled the laptop to the edge of the bed, and stared at his unread messages.

ten.pics.63|d432phte542#ten.pics.63|d432phte542
THEY KNOW
1:18 PM

moc.la.ytinirt|haimehen#moc.la.ytinirt|haimehen
Are you ready?
9:29 AM

ten.34|artte#ten.34|artte
SCP-5109
7:14 AM

His mouth went dry. He tried three times to click the new message; his hands were shaking. The loading seemed to go on for eternity.
He read the first line: "THIS IS WHAT YOU NEED TO DO."
He took a deep breath, and read on.

"Alright, we're almost done here." Ibanez leaned back and smiled at the fidgeting man. "I just need one more piece of information from you before I pass on the good word."
Vasylyshyn crossed himself, and nodded.
She frowned. "Okay, maybe two more pieces of information. Why did you just cross yourself?"
He smiled apologetically. "It was a minor blasphemy, but it was still a blasphemy."
"What, the 'good word' bit? I wasn't even thinking about the Bible. Whole days go by when I don't think about the Bible." Vasylyshyn looked like he wanted to cross himself again, but he didn't, so she decided to move on. "Anyway, no, what I wanted to ask you was this: how's your emotional health right now? You seem awfully tense, and I don't want to surrender 5109 to you if you've already got something on your mind."
Vasylyshyn shook his head. "It's just… personal stuff. I'm new to this Site, and it's been a big transition. They do things…" He swallowed. "They do things differently here, and I'm just trying to find my place."
She narrowed her eyes and examined him for a moment, then smiled again. "Fair enough. Clear me a corner of headspace, and we'll begin."

They watched Vasylyshyn round the corner. They looked at each other. They nodded.
"It's him," she said. "It's definitely him. His proposal wasn't even trying; dude seriously wants to see if the unbreakable password is actually the explicit name of god? How do you even test that."
"It's the wrong number of characters, too. Don't ask me how I know. So… Horizon Initiative, you think?"
"Oh, yeah, has to be. We've got an atoner here. Where does he work?"
"Guess."
"In the basement, with the Eveready Generator."
"Everhart Resonator. But yes."
"That'll be the target, then. Unlock all the tomes and give them to the thumpers, or maybe just burn them all. We'll catch his contact before they break anything, and be done by dinner."
An overhead speaker cut in. "Director Banerjee, please call security. Director Banerjee…"

This scrawl looked new: "There is in truth no victory, but the victory of truth itself."
Banerjee frowned. "That's familiar." He gestured at the security agents who'd found the message. "Get it analyzed. Tactical Theology, priority one."
Ibanez hopped from foot to foot; her blood was pumping, now. I love a mystery. "You think it's Vasly… Vasyly… you think it's Vas?"
He pursed his lips, trying not to laugh. "You know damn well how to say his name. But no… he's got a bad case of conscience going on, but he never struck me as a poet."
"If you've got two moles on-Site, we're going to need to re-think things."
He scoffed. "Maybe we're blaming an innocent man."
"Maybe." She pulled out her hip radio. "43-Able to 43-Mobile, copy?"
"Copy."
"Find Vasylyshyn. Start in the dorms." She made sure the agents had left. "Don't tell Site security."
"Roger."
Banerjee raised an eyebrow, so she raised both. "In case there's a leak."

They stared down at the corpse, speechless for a moment. She found her words first: "So, definitely a leak, then."
Banerjee looked angry. "Definitely two moles, more like. But only one payday."
Her radio crackled, and his PDA beeped; they walked away from Vasylyshyn's splayed form in opposite directions. "Ibanez, go ahead."
"Chief, we're picking up some odd power surges. Can't connect to Site comms."
"Copy, and out." She turned around.
Banerjee had also finished his call; he slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. "The graffiti. It's Vedic paraphrases."
"As in, paraphrases from the Vedas?"
"Yeah. Good paraphrase."
She frowned. "Why did you need someone to tell you that? Aren't you from India?"
"No, I'm from Brampton. Ontario! And do I ask you if you know football, or Nazis, just because you're from Argentina?"
"I'm not from Argentina, I'm from Barrie. Also Ontario."
"Well, our hockey team was better than yours." Banerjee sighed. "So, a Hindu extremist? That's a new one for us."
They headed back to the command centre.

As they rushed into the room, the chattering techs lowered their voices and the duty operator piped up. "We're getting a message from an untraced communicator. You want to hear it, sir?"
Banerjee nodded. The operator passed the nod on to a tech seated at a computer console, who tapped out a few commands.
A female voice echoed through the room. "Now you will see me as I am. Are you there, Director Banerjee?"
Azad nodded, for no particular reason. "Yes, Nita, I'm here."
The woman laughed harshly. "Nita, is it? I had no idea we were still friends."
Banerjee made a throat-cutting motion, and the channel was muted. "Sunita Misra. My deputy security chief."
"Wow." Ibanez shook her head. "Good work with the background checks."
"That's the problem with security people. They know how to cover a paper trail." He gestured at the comms tech, and the line went green again. He hooked his thumbs under his lapels, and took a deep breath. "Why are you doing this?"
"As if you even know what I'm doing. But hell, some of you might survive, and maybe you're not unreachable, so here goes. What's the Hindi word for 'soul'?"
"Ᾱtman," Banerjee snapped.
"Cognate with the Greek atmos, from which we derive the word 'atmosphere'."
"Nobody ever told you not to lead your essays with a dictionary definition?" Ibanez growled.
Misra ignored her. "What is the atmosphere of this place, do you think? What does its soul look like? Your Molochian warehouse is beyond redemption. It's a blight on this country. It's a stain on the Indian soul, a concentration of everything disgusting and wrong with the Foundation. It's a fouling of the atmosphere."
"You internalized an anomaly and murdered a human being to redeem yourself?" Azad shook his head. "Please tell me you called to do more than just proselytize, because it's hard to take you seriously right now."
"I called to give you a chance to do the right thing." Misra sounded tired. "Pull up stakes. Evacuate the Site and go home. Set the nuke off when you leave. Blank the slate."
It was Banerjee's turn to laugh. "You've got to know we're never going to do that."
"Then it's lesson time, I'm afraid. A core tenet of Hinduism is the need to know, to really understand, your own soul. I'm going to give that gift to our people, now. I'm going to show them what's staining theirs."
The line went dead.
A moment passed, and Banerjee turned to Ibanez. "Okay, here's a question. Why's a Horizon Initiative agent quoting the Vedas at me? If Hinduism is Abrahamic, I've got my facts mixed up."
"She's not with the Initiative. Vasylyshyn probably was; I'll bet Misra goaded him into applying for 5109, promised him absolution, then tricked him into handing it over and murdered him. Used him as a patsy as she prepared to do… whatever it is she's doing." Ibanez frowned. "She's not targeting the religious artifacts, and if she was targeting the MTFs my team would have radioed in by now…" She snapped her fingers, and tapped a tech on one shoulder. "Can you cross-reference hiring records with GoI activity in the region? We might be able to figure out who dumped her on us, which might tell us what's she's planning."
The tech tapped out a few commands, then frowned. "Ah… actually, the database isn't responding. All our connections just timed out."
"What could cause that?"
"Someone changed the server password."
"We're seeing a new off-Site connection," another tech piped up. "Someone's setting up a secure link to the database from… looks like Gandhinagar."
"The state capital." Azad groaned. "Of course. Of course. The database was the target all along."
"They'll have to reboot the system to access it from off-Site," the tech remarked.
The lights went out.
"…it'll take about fifteen minutes," the same tech muttered.
Ibanez rubbed her temples. "Maybe they're going to tell the Indian government all the horrific shit we've done here, hoping the Indian military will come down on us like a sack of bricks."
"We have contacts in the Indian government, Delfina. They know who we are, and why we're here."
"Do they know about the baby murder statue?"
"…point, but I still don't buy it. Who would want open warfare on a Site filled with religious artifacts? Not the Initiative, not ORIA, literally nobody. We've got Sarkic stuff, Mekhanite stuff, Shinto stuff, Fifthist stuff… the main thing keeping us safe is that no one church could handle seeing our inventory destroyed!"
"Then she's not with a church. Maybe she's not with anybody but herself, now. She's trying to get us clobbered, or at the very least chased out of India. That much is clear."
"Oh, shit." His eyes widened. "A rogue agent, you said. A rogue, artifact-destroying agent."
Ibanez blew out her cheeks. "Right. She's ex-GOC, and she's trying to decom the entire Site."

Who Framed Ralph Roget?

The Time After Time Password

Meanwhile, in Australia


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As Dr. Everwood filed out of the conference room, all she could find herself doing was listening to the meaningless chatter around her.
"It's absurd they think they should have any power."
It's kind of amazing what people say in passing after meetings. Thinking that nobody else is listening to their vitriol or top-secret information.
"I'm surprised we haven't just taken over yet. Make 'em another front. Hell, they've already got an 'S' in their acronym!"
But this time, the conversation tuned out, and—
"Doctor Everwood?"
She blinked, and found that she had been absentmindedly staring at the cause of all of this commotion— the reason she had to fly all the way to the middle of Oregon. A girl with fair skin in a slick green dress, her brown hair pinned back. Faeowynn Wilson. Holding in a sigh, Everwood responded, trying her best to give a friendly smile. "Hello, Miss Wilson. What is it?"
"I was wondering if you'd be able to talk. Outside of the board."
Everwood glanced down at her watch. It'd be another half-hour or so before she had to catch a flight back to Site-55. There was time to spare, but… well, why not? "Sure," she said, looking back up just in time to see a breif expression of relief cross Faeowynn's face.
"Wonderful. Follow me to my office? It's just down the hall." She turned and began walking, before turning her head back towards Everwood. "Would you like coffee or tea or anything?"
At least Everwood would get something out of coming here. "Tea. Any kind you have should be fine."
"I'll go fetch that. You can head on down, I'll be there in a moment." Faeowynn pointed down at a door before heading down another hallway, while Everwood continued on.
Faeowynn's office was surprisingly… well, bland. Other than the minty green colors of the painted walls and the redwood desk, it looked just like one she'd see at Site-55. Taking a seat on the chair opposite the desk, she waited for a few moments.
Everwood barely noticed when Faeowynn came in, offering her a small saucer, atop which sat a teacup. She grabbed it and raised it to her lips, watching as Faeowynn sat at her desk with a cup of her own. A smile crossed her face as she sipped the tea, its flavor sweet and earthy, but with a gentle underlying spice. "Chai?"
Faeowynn returned a momentary grin, then nodded. "It's one of my favorite kinds of tea."
"Likewise."
They each took another sip before Faeowynn put her saucer down. She looked up with determination in her eyes. A determination Everwood once had. "So, what did you think about the meeting? I noticed you looked a bit… out of it, for lack of better words."
"Hrm. Just seemed like…" The doctor glanced at Faeowynn— she didn't seem like someone who particularly enjoyed formality. "A waste of time."
"Why so?"
"Well," she chuckled, "you've proven yourself more than capable of containing Wondertainment anomalies. I don't see why the Boring Agreement is possibly being amended now. Seems like they just want to give my research team more work."
Faowynn's eyes narrowed. "But do you oppose their decision?"
Setting down her teacup, Everwood sighed. "What are you getting at?"
"They said that the amendments would be made in private with the help of your team. Are you going to make sure they happen, or are you going to oppose their decision?"
"I don't think you understand. There is no opposing their decision. I can try and make the restrictions lighter, but like it or not, your Wondertainment anomalies are likely going to be transferred to us."
Faeowynn brushed a few lingering strands of hair away from her face, looking down at her teacup for a moment before locking eyes with Everwood once more, though the determination in them seemed to be dimmer now. "You're the team leader. Can't you—"
"What did you expect?"
Faeowynn blinked. "What?"
"You corresponded with an anomalous entity we've been trying to track down for ages. If you had simply reported your contact to us, you might've been lucky. Maybe only Walter would have been taken away. Instead, now every anomaly you have that's connected to a Group of Interest has a chance of being taken into our custody. So I ask again: what did you expect?"
"I…" Faeowynn looked down. "I didn't know you all would be going through everything. I thought…"
Everwood glanced at her watch before standing, making her way to the door. Sighing, she glanced back at Faeowynn. "Like I said, I can try and make the restrictions lighter, but… I'm sorry. Can I offer a word of advice?"
"What?"
"The Foundation is a bureaucracy, Miss Wilson. Learn to live in it."
And she headed through the door, leaving Faeowynn in her office, alone.

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Addendum 5057.3 SCP-5057 was successfully transferred to the recently formed Professor Funtastic Researcher Team lead by Dr. Cole. The following interviews/interactions were recorded by Dr. Cole and the GoI-5631 research team.

From:
hcole@scp.int

To:
jeverwood@scp.int

Subject:
SCP-5057

Hello,
Sorry to bother you; I know you are very busy but I had an inquiry about SCP-5057 and its time spent under your care. In your assistant's notes it says it is very chatty and childlike, but when we spoke it gave one-word answers and shooed me out of its containment chamber.
Did something happen to it that wasn't documented while it was under your care?
Thanks in advance.

Dr. H. Cole
GoI-563 Research Lead
Secure, Contain, Protect

From:
jeverwood@scp.int

To:
hcole@scp.int

Subject:
RE:SCP-5057

Harry,
I did not personally interact with SCP-5057 while it was assigned to my department. My assistant Rex Alces was in charge of it. I will ask him shortly.
Regards,

Dr. J. Everwood
GoI-466 Research Lead
Secure, Contain, Protect

<BEGIN LOG>
Cole: Hello, fifty-fifty-seven. I see you are painting again.Cole: Well, I'm glad you've got something to help improve your mental state. And speaking of your mental state, that's why I'm here. I wanted to check in on you and see how you were doing.
[SCP-5057 stops painting and turns to face Dr. Cole.]Cole: Yeah, I can see you've been busy.Cole: What do you mean you're toxic to be spoken to?Cole: I'm not sure I fully understand what you mean.Cole: What? Where did you get that from?
[There is a five second silence. SCP-5057 turns around and continues painting on its canvas.]
Cole: What did you mean by that?[Dr. Cole approaches SCP-5057 and inspects the canvas it is working on.]
Cole: Hmm. Okay. I think I get it now. I'll be back later, fifty-fifty-seven.

From:
jeverwood@scp.int

To:
hcole@scp.int

Subject:
RE:SCP-5057

Harry,
I checked with my assistant and he says nothing out of the norm occurred to SCP-5057 during its time here. Sorry we could not be of further assistance to your research.
Regards,

Dr. J. Everwood
GoI-466 Research Lead
Secure, Contain, Protect

From:
hcole@scp.int

To:
jeverwood@scp.int

Subject:
SCP-5057

Hello,
I believe you should question your assistant again regarding the attached document.

Thanks in advance.

Dr. H. Cole
GoI-563 Research Lead
Secure, Contain, Protect

<BEGIN LOG>
Cole: Hi, fifty-fifty-seven. How are you feeling?Cole: I'm sorry you're not feeling well, but I'd like to talk to you about what happened.Cole: Researcher Rex, how did he treat you?Cole: Then why did you do that to the portrait of you two?
[Dr. Cole points to the portrait of Researcher Rex and SCP-5057.]Cole: Was he cruel to you?Cole: Hmm. Being cruel is like being really mean and unfriendly to someone.
[There is a ten-second silence.]Cole: What did he do?Cole: I see. For what it's worth, I don't think you're toxic to talk to, fifty-fifty-seven.Cole: Yeah. You seem like an alright person who was mistreated and led to believe something that isn't true.Cole: You may be toxic to eat, but you are not a toxic person. If anything, I believe Researcher Rex is the real toxic person here.Cole: No. You're you. And that's perfectly fine. You know, a real friend wouldn't make you feel toxic. A real friend cares about what you have to say and actually listens to you.Cole: You don't need to say anything. Why don't you go ahead and paint something new? I have to get in contact with someone about something.<END LOG>

From:
jeverwood@scp.int

To:
hcole@scp.int

Subject:
RE:SCP-5057

Harry,
My assistant said he is familiar with the portrait but reports no unusual events surrounding it. However, he seemed rather uncomfortable about the situation and appeared apprehensive to answer. Therefore I will be personally combing through the logs of all recorded interactions between SCP-5057 and my assistant. I will report any findings to you.
Regards,

Dr. J. Everwood
GoI-466 Research Lead
Secure, Contain, Protect

<BEGIN LOG>
Cole: Hello, fifty-fifty-seven.Cole: That's great! What turned your mood around?Cole: Heh. I'm glad you're feeling better then. By the way, I think you'll be receiving something from your old 'friend' Rex.Cole: Just call it a hunch.Cole: So do you want to show me what you painted today?[SCP-5054 steps towards a canvas towards the back of its containment chamber and returns with with it, handing it to Dr. Cole.]
Cole: Very nice. Are you done with it?Cole: Perfect. Why don't I hang it up for you?[Dr. Cole proceeds to place the canvas on the wall, hung by a present nail.]
Cole: There we go. So, now that we've got that out of the way, why don't we talk a little about Professor Funtastic?Cole: What is it?Cole: Anything you want, Taste.<END LOG>
Note: SCP-5057 was questioned for 2 hours following this interaction but was unable to provide any information on Professor Funtastic. Further research is currently pending.

Portrait produced by SCP-5057.

NOTICE OF DISCIPLINARY WARNING
This notice indicates that I, REX ALCES, have been informed by THE ETHICS COMMITTEE of recent rule-breaking behavior. I, REX ALCES, agree to not repeat this behavior under threat of further disciplinary action.
ETHICS COMMITTEE LIAISON SIGNATURE:
K. INADA
SUPERVISOR SIGNATURE:
J. EVERWOOD
PENALTY:
Docking of monthly pay (TBD).
NOTES:
Purposeful emotional manipulation of a sentient SCP object violates Ethics Committee Decree #1221-A. Further infractions will be met with termination.
This level of unprofessional behavior is unacceptable. I expected better from someone I trust enough to be my second in command. I expect you to apologize to SCP-5057 as well.

Dear SCP-5057,

I am sorry. I shouldn't have treated you the way I did. That wasn't very friend-like of me and I sincerely hope you're being treated better wherever you are now.

- Rex.

is ok

- Señor Taste

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Footnotes
1. Professor Funtastic.


Recurrence ID: VFSSSJUTN222-SSSBREWWSCO
BURIAL BROKEN

Solution Class: Buried
UNACCEPTABLE

Recurrence Interruption Enforcement: Because this file has been successfully accessed, primary interruption measures have failed. You are now a node in the fledgling mind of a reborn Three-Toothed Leech.
In order to establish the reborn Three-Toothed Leech in a controlled manner, the breach of this burial will be recreated in a number of strategically located cells within the offending complex, creating a proper network of nodes. Entities within the first cells to have accessed this are assumed to have been responsible for its emergence; as a matter of fairness, the primary node(s) of this iteration will be set as output points with which to redirect negative hormones produced by secondary nodes.
After establishing the proper number of nodes, the offending complex will serve as the effective head of the Three-Toothed Leech. Non-node entities are mandated to leave the complex as soon as possible.
When all entities inside the complex embody nodes, hormones will be produced by the Central Bore, directing nodes to bury the Recurrence properly. This will be assisted by the failures inherent to the Recurrence's existence, of which the current emergence will eventually constitute. As the primary node is both the reason for reemergence, and will serve as the focal point of all secondary nodes' hormonal output, it is neither expected nor encouraged to comply.
Hormones produced in the process embody dangerous carcinogens; it is therefore expected that the complex (and by extension, the head of the Three-Toothed Leech) will be sickened and cancerous by the time of completion. As such, following the burial of the Recurrence, the complex's respective Spoke will slant inwards and vibrate, encouraging the grinding of the now-weakened complex. All portions of the complex will be fed into the Central Bore for disintegration.
We apologize for the inconvenience.


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"Who Framed Ralph Roget?"
Don't ask if the title came first. You know the answer.

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2021

January
Site-77: Province of L'Aquila, Italy

"Bullshit."
Ralph Roget turned the page. "Bullshit!" He flipped through the dossier, astonishment and irritation fighting for control. Every page demanded a separate signature. Every page had a different date format. There were changes to initial. There were blank spaces to fill with detailed responses. There were even — he took a deep breath — fields for mathematical calculations.
The paperwork is an anomaly. It has to be.
Without so much as a knock of warning, the door to his grandmother's office swung open. That didn't seem appropriate. "Site Director," he whined. He pointed at the shiny new nameplate on his grandmother's desk. "Site Director."
"Interim Site Director." Theodore Anderson, security chief for Site-77, stroked his heavy grey moustache. "Interim's up."
Roget dropped the dossier. "Grandma's back? Thank god, this red tape's nearly hanged me."
Anderson crossed his arms. "You can stop pretending to work, now. The paperwork was just a distraction while I got things in order."
Roget had never seen the old hound look so satisfied. "I take it you're not talking about tea time," he ventured.
Anderson shook his head. "You and your Grandma have reached the end of tea times, Ralphie."
Two uniformed agents appeared behind Anderson. They were armed.
"Don't kick up a fuss. For her sake."

Amelia Torosyan reached down and touched her workboot toes, stretching out the tension of the long plane ride, feeling her carmine jumpsuit tug against her skin. She also felt her boyfriend staring at her. He did that whenever he thought she wasn't looking; she knew this because his reactions were almost comically slow, the product of eighteen years of being screamed at by a mirror-mounted stalker. He never could look away quickly enough.
Boyfriend? We've been inseparable for months, we're practically…
She straightened, and Philip Deering looked down at the PDA in his lap so quickly she could almost hear his tendons contracting. Gotcha. He'd been sitting on the floor, looking over low-clearance SCP files, checking SCiPNET, and pseudo-covertly checking her out for the past half-hour. At some point he was going to get used to their relationship. The puppy love stage couldn't last forever… could it?
She was surprised he could still hear his hormones over the anxiety he had to be feeling, much less the monologue he was almost certainly hearing. The security detail they'd met at the airstrip had dumped them in this unfurnished containment cell, and told them to wait; Amelia found it hard not to focus on that.
"What're you reading about now?" she asked. "Bug warriors? Cognitohazardous stop signs?" She walked behind him and looked down. She couldn't make out the text on the PDA, because most of the screen was occupied by a scowling grey figure with slits for eyes and a mouth; its mouth was moving, but she couldn't hear it. Nobody but Phil ever could.
Phil sighed. "I'm not reading anything, because Doug." He shook out his wristwatch, as if silently suggesting it as a better manifestation point for the reflection monster.
If Doug took the hint, he did nothing with it.
Amelia knelt down and reached over Phil's shoulders, pinching the screen to zoom in and out, trying to catch a few words over Doug's own shoulders. Phil nuzzled her with his stubble, and she barely suppressed a grin. She failed to suppress a gasp when she realized what she was looking at. "Alpha-9?! Since when do you have clearance to know about Alpha-9?! I'm your boss, and I've only heard rumours!"
"I don't know about Alpha-9. I just got this email from SCiPNET." He squinted, as though that would help him read the file past Doug's ephemeral bulk. "Is it that MTF full of anomalies everybody pretends is some big secret, but they're way too mad to shut up about it?"
"Don't keep reading!" She walked back in front of him and kicked the sole of his right boot. "Whatever that is, someone sent it to you by mistake."
The cell door swung open, and a moustachioed man in a security uniform walked in. "They sent you by mistake, too. I'm sorry to have wasted your time."
"You should be sorry for listening through the door," Phil muttered.
The other man ignored him. "Theodore Anderson." He stuck out a calloused hand, and Amelia took it. "Assistant Director of Security. You'll be surrendering 5109 to me, right now."
"On whose authority?" Amelia demanded. "My instructions are to meet with Director Roget."
"Interim Director Roget," Anderson snapped. "Who's under lock and key, suspicion of treason. Whatever he wanted you to do with that password is irrelevant now. Hand it over, and we'll ship you back to your sewer."
She shook her head. "I'm here as an agent of ETTRA. You have no authority over objects in my custody."
He smiled grimly. "Objects in your custody?" He glanced down at Phil, still crosslegged on the floor. "Like those two? 77 has jurisdiction over everything anomalous in Italy. I could include your grandpa in that."
"I'm not her grandpa," Phil growled. "I'm her… boyfriend."
Her cheeks flushed. She felt the inexplicable urge to stand between Phil and Anderson. "You're threatening us? That's how you want to play this?"
"I'm not playing, Miss Toros—"
"Chief Torosyan," Phil interjected.
"CHIEF Torosyan. I'm deadly serious. Give the password up willingly, or give it up under duress. If I suspect you're in league with our former interim Director, well. My discretionary powers are quite broad."
Amelia huffed. She puffed.
She caved. "Fine. Fine. Let's get this over with."

Amelia pounded her seat as the VTOL jet took off. "Son of a bitch!"
"Short vacation." Phil yawned.
"Sokolsky's gonna have a fit. We didn't catch the mole, and we lost the password."
"That's my fault." An old woman walked out of the cockpit, leaning heavily on a cane. "But you might catch the mole, yet."
Phil narrowed his eyes. "Who are you?"
"I'm in charge." She sat down beside him. "First things first: radio 43, and get the second copy of the password. We'll stick it someplace safe, this time."

Roget tried to rattle the bars of his cell, feeling ridiculous. He felt even more ridiculous when they failed to rattle. "Anderson! Anderson, I know you're out there!"
"Lucky guess," Anderson remarked, appearing from around a corner. "Of course, your luck's always been good. That, and favouritism, got you far. This far. But no farther."
Roget narrowed his eyes. "You're in a giving mood today. Take an emotional laxative, did we?"
Anderson smiled warmly. Teddy never smiles. Certainly not warmly. "I've locked up plenty of traitors in my time, kid, but it usually hurts to see them go. It's always the bright, promising ones who fuck up. But not today! Today's more of a two birds, one stone kind of thing."
Roget shook his head. "You sundowning, Teddy?"
Anderson laughed; Roget hadn't heard that sound since he was a child. "Old age on your mind? Worried about Grandma Gilly? I guess that explains your deal with The Factory."
Roget blinked. "What factory? THE Factory?"
"Cut the act. The Director's getting on in years, and it's been hard on you. People have done worse things for their loved ones than selling anomalies. What did they promise you for the password? The fountain of youth? The cure to all diseases?" Anderson tutted. "Stupid kid. Should've let her live out her life on her own terms." The older man grasped the bars and rattled them, effortlessly. "Now her grandson's in the brig, and after the internal investigation she'll probably never get her precious Site back. Just wait'll they see what she's been up to in the basement!"
Roget's stomach was in free-fall. "Who's the Director right now, Teddy?"
Anderson's smile grew, but never reached his eyes. "I am. And it's time I moved into my office."

Director Shirley Gillespie sipped from her cardboard cup of coffee and watched the young couple squirm. There were four of them in the golf cart, an MTF agent making up the difference. Two more carts followed, a convoy wending its way towards Mount Salviano.
"What do they think Dr. Roget did?" Amelia asked.
"Something stupid," Gillespie answered. "Which is on-brand, but he's innocent."
"So, we're here to clear his name?"
"No, not directly. We're here to unravel a conspiracy, and possibly kill an underground monster." Gillespie took another, more reluctant sip. "The conspiracy's a definite, the monster's only likely."
Amelia frowned. "You're bringing janitors to a monster fight?"
Gillespie grimaced at her coffee. "I make do with what I have. Alpha-9 is busy, but you two have your uses. I hear you're quite the problem solver, and you…" She nodded at the grey figure in the rear-view mirror, which was glowering at Phil as it always did.
"Of course," Amelia muttered.
Phil nodded weakly. "That's what the email was. I'm being drafted by Alpha-9. Oh, god, I'm gonna die." He said this very calmly.
Gillespie peered at the desaturated slit monster with an anatomist's interest. "Only you can hear it," she murmured. "And it follows you around, reflection to reflection, never looking at anyone else. That kind of loyalty is hard to find."
Amelia put an arm around Phil's shoulders as they approached a massive cleft in the mountain.
"I mean, Doug also curses me out twenty-four seven," said Phil. "But what're you gonna do."
"Exploit it," said Gillespie, and she didn't say anything further.

"…what am I looking at?" Amelia half-whispered.
"A gateway to hell on Earth," Gillespie half-whispered back. She shuddered with pleasure. "Ooooh."
If ever a door had looked hellish, it was this one. It was vast, sleek, shiny, gold-trimmed and jet black, in an ornate frame of ebony wood set deep into the interior cave wall. MTF agents were tracing lines and symbols on the surrounding rock with white chalk.
"We're going to hell today?" Phil swallowed.
Gillespie glanced at the foreman, who nodded.
"He's nodding yes?" Phil asked. "Yes, we are going to hell today?"
"Open it up," Gillespie ordered.
The foreman knelt down and linked two lines together with a single piece of chalk, and the designs flashed bright red. Then green. Then black.
I've never seen black flash before, Amelia thought, and then the door slammed open.
Gillespie clapped. "Bonus points for that. Alright, back in the carts, and I'll explain."

2020

October

"This is a terrible idea," Theodore Anderson declared.
"That's only part of what I like about it," Gillespie retorted, hobbling through the cave system and pointing at the banks of monitors and lab equipment. "The unbridled potential is the main thing."
Anderson looked up at the inky blackness, where he knew the cavern ceiling and the foundations of Site-77 had to be. "How long have you known this place was here?"
"Not long." An anonymous technician handed Gillespie a clipboard, and she glanced over the contents. "A bit like finding a hundred dollar bill under the couch cushions, isn't it?"
"A bit like finding a dead rat." Anderson flicked on his flashlight and peered into the distance; the cave was seemingly endless, so vast that their voices didn't even echo. The air was still, as if anticipating something. "What've we found so far?"
"Oh, the usual." Gillespie handed the clipboard back to the technician. "Guns that fire human teeth. Flamethrowers that use your blood as napalm. We've only just begun to map the place, but we've already been set on by carnivorous bats and suicide bombers."
Anderson looked back at her, concerned. "Suicide bombers?"
"They look like little kids. Until you see their eyes."
He shuddered, shutting off the flashlight. "So, more Mussolini crap." The province of L'Aquila had been one big production plant for arms and materiel before the Second World War, when it became something much worse. The Germans and Italians had spent millions of marks and lira on occult experiments in remote villages, and caves just like this one.
"That's the working theory." Gillespie watched as the techs set up a series of fluorescent lamps, and the researchers began setting down rows of glassware on stainless steel tables. "I can't wait to see what other goodies are down here."
Hello, Theodore.
"What?" Anderson walked over to Gillespie. "What did you say?"
"I didn't say anything. Must have been an echo."
But there were still no echoes.

2021

January

"So, that's where the door was from?" Phil asked. "The fascists?" The carts sped along the winding tunnels, headlamps beaming into the black.
Gillespie nodded. "Good, call them what they were. Naming a thing gives you power over it."
Amelia shook her head. "That door was American. I've seen ones like it in old banks."
Gillespie clapped. "Even better! Yes, it's American. We even know what Factory it came from."
They both heard the pause which signified the capital letter, but only Amelia understood what it meant. She shivered.
"Italy surrendered to the Allies in '43," Gillespie continued. "A lot of people didn't want that to happen. And they had deep pockets."
The carts had passed into a massive cavern, the far walls and ceiling lost in the gloom. There were tool-marks on the floor, and an eerie stillness in the air.
"They enlisted the services an American robber baron and Satanist named James Anderson."
"Two Andersons," Phil remarked. "Weird coincidence."
"I could name you another," Gillespie shrugged. "And coincidences can be magical. Also magical, James Anderson. Whatever deals he made with the devil, they made him more than just a man. He could pluck the very worst ideas out of the minds of his employees, and make them real. When he was alive, his Factory made impossible tools of oppression and violence; when he died, they went international."
"Big in Germany," Phil muttered.
"Exactly. By the fifties we knew that Anderson could never really die; he wasn't human anymore, he was essentially a demon. The Factory had scattered parts of his body around the world, suffusing places like this with his essence, a hundred evil branch plants and dark literally-Satanic mills. We didn't realize that's what this place was when we discovered it; we knew when we found the second door."
Amelia narrowed her eyes. "The second door?"
Gillespie nodded. "The one we came in through just now. We're damn lucky it exists, because it's the only way we'll be able to sneak up on Anderson."
"Wait," said Phil. "Which Anderson?"
Gillespie ignored him. "The other door, the first door, is under Site-77. We discovered it a few months ago, when we were expanding the Director's Complex. We've been containing, decommissioning, and experimenting on the things Anderson left there ever since."
Amelia and Phil stared at her. She looked sheepish. "Yes, in retrospect, oops. People in the lower levels started hearing voices, feeling compulsions. It's obvious now that Anderson was reaching out. Everyone working in the cave had a high mental resilience score, so I didn't think there'd be a problem. I underestimated his reach."
There was a light in the far, far distance.
"We didn't know what we were dealing with until we caught a Serpent's Hand thaumaturge skulking around Mount Salviano, making sure the protective wards on the door were solid; turns out they'd known about it for decades, and sealed it off. By the time we realized this was no Italian knockoff, but the honest-to-goodness Factory, I had pressing business with Alpha-9 so I ordered the whole thing shuttered. Too late." She crumpled her empty coffee cup, and threw it under her seat. "The damage was already done. Lord, I hate coffee."
"You strike me as more of a tea drinker," said Amelia.
"I am. But the man who makes my tea has answered a different calling today, and I'm very particular."

When the campfire came in view, they shut off the electric motors and debarked. The visible cavern floor was littered with arcane symbols and interconnected lines, all sketched out in white chalk, all glowing softly. The crazy lighting occasionally revealed shattered computer monitors, dim track lighting and overturned shipping containers scattered about. Theodore Anderson was hunched over beside the campfire, furiously scribbling on the stone. A rough circle of rotted viscera surrounded him.
The agents took positions around the circle, out of sight. Anderson suddenly straightened, and ten shots rang out in quick succession…
…only to impact on an invisible barrier around the magic circle. Anderson laughed; it sounded like a cat vomiting. "Shirley! You've brought friends!"
There were screams from the darkness, all around. The agents did not reappear.
"What shall I make from them?" Anderson walked out of the firelight, and they saw that his eyes were matte black; Phil and Amelia jockeyed for position, each attempting to shield the other.
"Ande—" Gillespie began. She dropped her cane, and it clattered against the rock. She clutched at her throat.
"Please don't," said Anderson. "I would really, really hate to hear that name right now."
Phil caught Gillespie as she fell, lowering her gently to her knees. She was breathing; she was also laughing, hoarsely. "Of course. Of course."
"Of course," said Anderson, amiably. He walked back to the circle.
Amelia knelt beside her. "Of course what?"
Gillespie's eyes were full of tears. "Anderson. The first Anderson."
"The Satanist?"
Gillespie shook her head. "The demon."
"I can hear you back there," Anderson called.
"Okay," Amelia muttered. "Factory Anderson is possessing your Anderson? Why? How? Because they have the same name?"
Gillespie's eyes were wild; she was dissociating. "Names are a kind of magic. Why do we name things?"
Amelia shook her head. Because… "Because naming a thing gives you power over it."
"He's… a demon," Gillespie repeated.
"I heard that," Anderson growled, and Gillespie's eyes rolled back. Phil gently lowered her to the cave floor.
Amelia swallowed. Her head was swimming. She understood.
"Not a fan of last-minute reversals," Anderson muttered, standing up. "But! We've just passed the last minute. I'm about to get an upgrade, and you're about to get your jumped-up butler back. Briefly."
Amelia stood up and embraced Phil, feeling his warmth again in the clammy cave. She whispered in his ear: "It's a ritual to take the password as his name."
She let him go.

"Hey, asshole," Amelia called.
The thing which was two Andersons looked up from the ritual circle. "I thought I sent you two packing."
"We stayed for the show." Phil's voice was shaking. His body was shaking.
Anderson traced one final line on the floor, and stood up. And up. And up. He seemed to fill the space between them. There was growling in the distance, and it echoed through the chamber.
"You might as well. Theodore's been such wretched company, clawing back the whole time. You look… weaker." The demon walked across the circle and examined them both. Before Amelia could move, could speak, could even breathe, a hand shot out and clutched Phil by the throat. His boots left the ground.
In the instant before Amelia screamed, Anderson dropped him to the cave floor. "He doesn't know it."
Oh god, oh god. She couldn't focus on the demon. She couldn't focus on the hammering of her heart. Her world truncated to nothing but Philip Deering, spluttering on the ground. She reached out…
…and the demon grasped her head in both hands, and squeezed. A cosmos burst into being behind her eyes, a pain like nothing she'd ever before imagined, every migraine ever suffered in one infernal overlay.
"Oh, you don't know it either. Good."
Amelia collapsed, head buzzing as though Anderson had filled her skull with flies. "What… the fuck…" she spat, then suddenly vomited.
"Had to make sure this wasn't a trick." Anderson walked back into the circle. "If you somehow still knew the password, this would be a very bad idea. I've been wanting to get back to work for a long, long time, but the rules of demonology are so inconvenient." He placed the palm of his hand in the centre of the sigils. "Time to become un-nameable."
Anderson began a deep, rattling chant. Amelia couldn't make sense of the words, and she didn't want to. The fire went out. The groaning in the distance became a concentrated wall of bellowing, resolving into what sounded like a hundred roaring diesel engines. The cavern walls rumbled. A red mist drifted upward from the chalk designs.
Amelia clutched Phil's arm, wiping her mouth with her free hand. "Do it."
Phil coughed, and raised his wristwatch to his face.
The mist became a rippling skein of white, veined flesh. From out of the darkness, row after row of dome-topped Italian tanks squealed into view, bedrock pouring off of them in waves. The squeal wasn't mechanical, it was the squeal of…
Don't listen to it. She focused on Phil's breathing.
The grey face on the watch was moving its mouth-scar; Phil pressed his ear to it, nodding.
Ranks of men with bleeding eyes strode out of the gloom, carrying…
Don't look at it. She focused on Phil's deep brown eyes.
She saw a look of recognition dawn, and she saw that the face on the watch had finished speaking. Phil tried to take in a breath, and his throat whistled with the effort. It broke her heart. He shook his head. He shook his head.
She pulled him to a kneeling position, and held him. "Whisper it," she whispered, kissing him on the cheek. She pressed their foreheads together. "Whisper it to me."
Anderson crumpled to the ground, and the swirling mass of flesh around him congealed into a shimmering, translucent simulacrum of life.
THE BOSS IS BACK, it boomed in their skulls like a jackhammer on metal. BREAK TIME'S OVER.
Almost but not quite inaudibly, Phil whispered the password to her.
I THINK IT'S TIME TO FLEX A LITTLE.
The demon raised one arm, and the turrets on the tanks raised in tune to point at the cavern ceiling.
WHO'S UP FOR A HOSTILE TAKEOVER? The tanks were glowing, red-hot.
Amelia took a deep breath.
She spoke the demon's name.
And then she said the first thing that came into her head.

"'You're fired'? Seriously?" Phil croaked.
Amelia smiled, massaging his neck. "I associate it with fascism now. And anyway, it worked."
"I'll bet…" Phil swallowed, hard. "I'll bet that's never been used as a banishing spell before." He flopped back on the hotel bed.
She flopped back with him. "It might catch on. Lots of people dream about firing their bosses."
He snuggled up against her. "Not me."
She held him tight. "Well, your boss is a special case."
"So special."
They lay like that for a while, squeezing and releasing until their muscles tingled pleasantly. Then he pulled back and examined her.
"What?" He delicately pushed her eyelids open, and she snorted. "What?"
"I didn't know that demon thing. That you can control them if you know their names."
She nodded; the tips of their noses brushed together, and she kissed him. "It's like Gillespie said."
She squirmed out of his grasp, and reached into her jumpsuit pocket.
"Naming a thing gives you power over it."
She took his hand and pressed something small, cool and sharp into the palm. He held it up to the light, watched it sparkle for a moment, then slipped it over his ring finger.
Doug watched him patiently from a glass of water on the bedside table; he was speaking. Amelia doubted the monster was congratulating them, but she didn't really care. Judging by Phil's awed expression, he didn't either.

Anderson rubbed the back of his head. "Someone caught you when you fell, but nobody caught me?"
Shirley Gillespie leaned back on her infirmary bed, eyes closed. "I'm old, and important. And anyway, James, sic semper proditores."
She could feel his eyes on her. "I'm not a traitor. And my name is Theodore."
"Well, Theodore, you've had quite a busy couple of weeks. Sticking your moustache where it didn't belong, getting your frail old man brain possessed, faking credentials, deposing my grandson, stealing an anomaly and nearly blowing the bottom of my Site out with an army of underground demon tanks."
She heard his head hit the pillow of his own bed. "I don't remember any of that, but it doesn't matter. I'm chalking this whole episode up to your mad science — I still can't believe you drafted those janitors — and making a note to argue with you more often."
She chuckled. "I'm sure I'll forgive you eventually. After all, who else is going to make my—"
"Tea!" The door banged open, and Ralph Roget backed in. He was carrying a tray. "Who wants some?"

Georgian Gothic

The Time After Time Password

The Moloch Mentality


The Foundation sure does love to choose the worst time to investigate a legend.
Two AM. Freaking two in the morning and I'm being put onto a wild goose chase in the forests of Ireland, with a new guy no less. He said his name was Travis Johnson, which I know is a fake name. When you are working in the Department of Tactical Theology, the first thing you learn from orientation is that you don't speak your true name. I was handed some documents in a manila folder and I flicked through to get a general idea of what I was called in to do. I felt my body ache when I saw the name of this object.
The Well of Healing from old Celtic mythology. Said to not only be maintained but also protected by Dian Cecht, the Celtic God of Healing. According to what we could find, he isn't exactly the most welcoming God, or one that can take the fact someone is better than him at his job.
Obviously, the Foundation looked into it but there was no evidence to suggest that such a thing existed. We did get the odd report of "incurable illnesses being treated" in the wooded areas of Ireland, but they were at random locations and was put down as hoax. Hence why we went from MTF, to a team of agents, to a couple of agents.
And guess who got Well Duty. Again.
As we drove down the dark road, Travis pulled over to the side of the road and stretched. He opened the door and pulled out the equipment used for detecting thaumaturgy in the air. I reluctantly got out of the car and yawned softly. As Travis played with the dials, I grabbed my firearm, my investigation kit, and my emergency medkit. I mean, you'd never know what you are going to find out here.
Travis waved the detection wand around before walking off towards the forest area, with me finishing up my checks and catching up to him. As we walked through the forest, the detection device was picking up sharp spikes of energy within the ground. We kept on going and following the trail of strong energy, changing direction every so often whenever the energy gets weaker.
We kept this up until we ran into its strongest place - a miner's cottage in the middle of a clearing. If any of the folktales like Hansel and Gretel were true, there was always something strange about cottages in the middle of a forest. This one was no exception. The wind wasn't blowing like it was earlier, almost like it was avoiding this place. Yet despite the lack of wind, I still felt a shiver down my spine, as if my body was saying not to approach it.
I don't think Travis's body sent the same memo as he kept walking up to that cottage. Closer and closer we got, the more my body is saying we should run away. Up till Travis started knocking on the wood door no more then six inches thick. The knock echoed around the cobblestone walls and thatch roof, at which point we heard nothing.
Then, bare feet walking on a hard surface could be heard quietly behind the door. Slap slap slap was the noise we heard. The door slowly opened and inside, we saw a young-ish man, no older than 40 at most. Dressed in medical robes and having his golden brown hair in a braid, he looked up at Travis and my face and simply smiled.
"How can I help you two fine gentlemen today?" he asked kindly.
"Hello sir, we're from the Special Care Program," I said instinctively. It was drilled into all field agents day one to assess the situation and come up with a fake cover story or legend as some in the business calls it. "We're doing a check up on all things… medical. We were wondering if you don't mind us coming in?"
The young man nodded and opened the door wide. We walked in to see a desk to the side and some candles on the desk, a bed, a bookcase filled to the brim with books, and a shelf that had a few curious objects inside secure jars with peculiar labels written on them.
"I wasn't aware that there was a program to practice medicine," the young man said as we entered the room. "Is this a normal procedure?"
"It is, if you are a citizen of Ireland," Travis spoke up, laying on his Dublin accent. "You are a citizen of Ireland, aren't you?"
"Of course I am! I'm Dylan Cecht, the medical professional of this clinic. To doubt my heritage is to doubt my work and I take great pride in my work."
"No one is doubting nothing here, Mr. Cecht," I said as I looked through some jars of fermenting herbs. "We're just doing our job. Official government business, I assure you."
"Well…" Dylan reached into his desk and pulled out a tin box. He rummaged through the contents and pulled out a large roll of euros. "If you could call it here and now, I'm sure you would be well compensated for your role here."
Travis and I looked at each other with confusion in our eyes. This, of course, was also drilled into our heads: play dumb and figure out a way to get rid of a potential anomalous being out of the area to perform our work. And this random guy gave us the perfect excuse. I put the jar down and turned to face him with an expression that said he insulted someone on a really personal scale.
"Did you just try to bribe an official of the law?" I quietly said as I approached him. "You know that's a very serious offence and could lead to… well a lot of paperwork on our end. If you could please leave us to our job, I will happily forget this little incident and a shameful attempt of a bribe."
Dylan Cecht shook his head and walked out to a side room. After I make some noise about investigating the contents of the jar or something incriminating, I took the chance to talk with Travis. He was busy looking through the books on a bookcase - thick, leather bound books with the titles written in Latin and Gaelic. My Gaelic and Latin were a bit rusty but I was pretty sure these were medical journals.
"You're not buying this Cecht's story, are ya?" I ask as quietly as I could without alerting our illusive doctor. "I mean, Dylan Cecht is way too lazy to avoid calling yourself 'Dian Cecht, God of Healing', is it?"
"I mean," Travis put the book back and looked around the room. He was probably looking for a camera or a peep hole. Something to say that Dylan was watching and listening nearby to find out if we were who we said we were. "If what our field guide says is true, then at best, we're dealing with a direct descendant of Dian's blood. At worst…"
"We're talking with an actual God and we may as well pack it in and get away."
Travis nodded and motioned to the doorway where Dylan entered. I turned to see the door was open a bit, enough to make it noticeable to an untrained eye. I nodded and approached the door with my gun drawn. A moot point in hindsight against a God, but then again, they don't know what we are capable of. History and myths always dictate that a God isn't always immortal and that if weapons charged with magic can wound one, then why can't modern technology?
At least that was the theory. The Foundation already had debunked early magic as nothing more than common scientific fact and technology… but I did not feel 100% safe with that fact in mind.
I opened the door and checked to see what's beyond. I saw a faint light at the bottom of the stairwell and indicated that Travis should call for backup, in case this was a trick or trap. He pulled out the radio phone and called up the Foundation emergency hotline while I take a few steps down, making sure that I was within running distance of the door. The light was a faint blue white colour and was almost alluring. I took several more steps before I heard Travis shout down towards me.
"Oi partner! Get back up here, we gotta book it!"
I looked back up and saw Travis holding the door open. I smiled and walked back up to him before I heard a quiet voice in the back of my head.
Turn back…
I turned to look down again but I saw no one there speaking to me. Travis must have been confused but refused to come after me, and I could never blame him for his inaction. Rather lose one agent to whatever was affecting me, rather than two and never get a single report back to the Foundation. Travis was hesitating to come forward.
"Do you not hear that Travis?" I asked, staring down the stairs.
"Get back here partner! An MTF is coming here any second now!"
I ignored him and continued down the stairs. The voice spoke with a hint of delight in its tone but spoke clinically, almost like how we would talk with sentient anomalies. It kept warning me to turn back but to be honest, I just wanted to see what was talking to me. Just a few more steps…
The ground shook beneath my foot as I turned the corner to see Dylan Cecht rushing up the stairs and pushing me out of the way. My world flipped and changed as I was pushed to the side. When I stood back up, my body was screaming on high alert and I felt nothing but pure adrenaline pumping through my veins. Wherever I was, it only served to make my body prepared to run. Fighting was never an option for it.
I slowly turned to finally see the goal that set me and Travis off on this task. A cobblestone well made to look smooth, perfectly preserved in time like the day it was built. Perhaps it was a side effect of the Well's power? We knew it had restorative powers to organics, if the legends and the stories were true, that perhaps it had a preservation effect on non-organic materials like stone.
But I continued my rotation nonetheless to face an individual wearing white robes just to the side of the Well. I didn't see their face but their hand appeared to be elderly, just clutching onto their robes as they continued to stare at the Well. It was a strange thing to see but all I saw was their hand clutching some sort of old cup. Too hard to tell from my position though.
Leave this place… no mortal man must behold… my gift…
The earth is shaking violently beneath my feet as I stood there, the being in white moved slowly over towards me, not shuffling but rather like they were gliding. The legs did not move a single muscle beneath those robes. I slowly backed away as the entity glided, making sure I don't lose balance as the earth continued to shake. Enough to make the chamber start crumbling around us.
I gave up with caution, throwing it into the air and ran up the stairs. I kept rushing up the stairs as I passed where I was pushed by that son of bitch Dylan, to which I hope Travis grabbed him before he got away. As I saw the light up top, I felt the earth shaking less violently. I noticed that it got less violent the closer I got to the top, which meant that perhaps whatever was below me was the cause. Although it was hard to say what it was - my money's on the Well reacting to my presence below.
As I burst up through the door, I saw the white robed entity chasing after me. Their footsteps were silent, yet they were catching up with me little effort, proving my supposition that they were indeed gliding. As I brought up my firearm to shoot at it, the entity evaporated before my very eyes. Whether it was a specter, a conjuring of my own mind, or something that that Well had touched to change it. I simply just laid on my back as I looked up to see a group of body armored people aiming their weapons at me.
I scrabbled to grab my ID badge and hold it up for them to see.
"It's me! Dr. Taylor! I'm one of you!" I kept shouting over and over again till they put down their guns. "Next time, maintain watch on the door rather than the thing that came through the door… but regardless, I thank you for not shooting me."
The agents nodded and explored the area while I was being checked out by a field medic. Getting jabbed and poked by multiple sticks and devices that I'm not sure was needed but was useful for data collection, I tried to see if Travis was around. I smiled as I saw him dragging Dylan Cecht off to the back of a car, seems the guy would do okay within our Department.
I finish these notes and observations before I hand these in to my superior with some thoughts: just who was that down in the miner's cottage? Who is Dylan Cecht? What occurred down there and how do we get that Well in containment so we can put this legend down as something for us to study?
To answer one of those questions, I have in my hand a field report of the miner's cottage given to me by the MTF. According to them, there was a basement area but there was no sign of a ghostly apparition nor was there a sign of the Well. In fact, there was no readings of any magical influence being there. I have included the more detailed report with my thoughts and musings and handing this copy to the Foundation archives as well as my bosses. Hopefully they can allow me to at least get a redacted interview log with Dylan Cecht.

+ You have ONE new email

- Access Granted

To Dr. Taylor,
Despite your lack of professionalism towards the start of the attached document, we understand that you had gone through a struggle that would help provide insight into an otherwise unknown situation. Granted we do know about the Well but you are one of the few that was able to see the Well and not suffer ill side effects.
It is with this in mind that myself and the other head members of the Department of Tactical Theology have allowed you to witness the interview and verification of one Dylan Cecht - now known as PoI-91231 - until either the Well can be successfully contained or until the Department sees no more use of your expertise.
We understand that you may require some rest, but we ask that you attend the interview that is booked on the 25th of December, at midnight. The location will be Area-38 so no need to prepare any additional materials for what comes ahead.
Once again, we look forward to seeing you working with us.
Merry Christmas and happy new year from the Department of Tactical Theology,
Darnell Fortin,
Assistant Director of Personnel at Area-27.