"So, uh, for the record, if you are an actual murderer, it would be super uncool of you not to tell me now."

« A Confluence of Clandestine Conferences ||

It was early morning in Three Portlands. The skybox sun had just truly warmed up, sweeping away the muggy fog into the edges of town. The air was thick and hot, but the sky was cleared to blue.
Not far from the city center, at the base of a tall brownstone, in a cramped office sequestered from the busyness of the business it administrated, a man named Casey Malik had just murdered his boss.
Casey had not intended to kill his boss. Casey had not intended to enter the room, lock the door behind him, and, in lieu of providing an update on his most recent business trip, pull a handgun from his backpack and open fire. All of these things had been unplanned.
In fact, until Casey felt the cold metal in his backpack just a moment ago, he was unaware that he had a loaded gun in his possession. It was only when he touched it that he came to this realization, immediately prior to the aforementioned murder.
Like an automaton, he had lifted the weapon, pointed it across the desk, and pulled the trigger, holding down until the slide clicked back. Three bullets had flown across the room, through the suit, torso, and leather office chair of Nathan Regent, owner and proprietor of the Three Portlands headquarters of Iris Arts. The poor sap didn't have time to question why his assistant was murdering him, let alone call for security.
Security seemed to have caught on from the gunshots, though, and as Casey heard the thud of the gun dropping to the ground, and the pumping of blood in his ears, he additionally heard hard knocking on the office door.
He didn't have time to think. There was a ground-level window just to his left. He picked up his backpack, shoved it through, and stepped atop a priceless wooden cabinet, casting a last peek at his former boss before ducking through.
Through the cramped window, Casey scrambled into the alley, scraping his knees through his slacks. He scooped up his backpack with both arms. The alley was deserted, thankfully, just some discarded bikes and glowing weeds lining the gutters. Right led to a brick wall plastered with posters, but to the left was the street.
As he made his way to the clearing, it occurred to him that he hadn't the slightest idea what he was planning to do. Generally, formulating a plan comes after the step in which you gain some awareness of why you ended up in the situation you're currently in. Being completely in the dark, Casey intuited that he had skipped at least a few steps. Planning would have to be postponed.
As he strode from the alleyway, his head swiveled, scanning rows of bakeries and galleries, but not a single customer. In fact, the whole street was empty. There was the whole matter of gunshots scaring people off, but generally gunshots were among the least upsetting noises to overhear in Three Portlands. Certainly not worth scattering for.
The silence was then broken by a whirring noise, and Casey snapped back to see an auto-rickshaw speeding down the street.
Casey turned around, but the alley just led to a dead end. The rickshaw, bearing no insignia Casey recognized, came to a stop at the alley's entrance. The driver stepped out. "Hey, you. Did you just murder someone?"
Casey turned back to the interloper, stammering.
The man was undeterred. "You're who I'm looking for, then. Come on, let's get you out of here." He motioned to the vehicle.
Casey glanced at the office window behind him. He could hear shouting, and the crash of the office door being breached by Iris security personnel.
His options were limited.

Casey clutched his backpack to his chest in the back of the auto-rickshaw. The driver, a tall, blond man in sunglasses, seemed content with this development. He glanced over his shoulder, back at Casey. "So, uh, for the record, if you are an actual murderer, it would be super uncool of you not to tell me now."
"I- I swear, I don't know what happened, it was just-"
The man cut him off. "Alright, yeah, good. Don't worry about how things seem, I have your back. I'm Troy. I'm with the Chaos Insurgency, and I'm gonna help you out."
Casey blinked. "The what?"
"The Chaos Insurgency." Troy seemed convinced that this should be a calming development. It was not.
"Why- where are you taking me?"
The man turned back to look at the road. "Branch headquarters."
The surroundings, shopfronts and brick roads, all faded to a blur, and Casey could do nothing but sit silently and think-

Yesterday, Nathan Regent was still alive.
In addition to possessing hopes, dreams, a family, and a pulse, Mr. Regent also had an assistant named Casey.
The interesting thing about running an art supplies business is that you don't actually need to have any kind of artistic talent. Not even any managerial talent. Nathan Regent's talent was condescension. He had honed his smug tone and mismatched wardrobe into a weapon. He paraded it so confidently, it almost made one feel like they were missing out. One wanted to impress him, despite his thorough unimpressiveness.
Casey was very familiar with this quality. Each day, Casey would enter Mr. Regent's basement office with a coffee — black, but with altogether too much sugar. Mr. Regent would drink this coffee, and as he did so he would give Casey a list of tasks to perform. Fetch this, verify that, and be back by four, because that's when Mr. Regent will need another cup of coffee to take home.
Worst of all was when Casey had to negotiate with potential business partners. Casey was not good at negotiation, and Mr. Regent knew this.
In fact, he was counting on it: Regent's strategy was to send clearly terrible envoys to meet potential clients, so that those clients will assume that Iris Arts must be saving their good representatives for more important clients. Subconsciously, they would feel the need to prove themselves, and give their all despite the mediocre showing. It also saved money.
Casey had the privilege of being the sacrificial lamb in this game of economic negging.
One day before Mr. Regent's death, he had been on one such tour of shame. He went through the Isle exit from Portlands — Casey's least favorite, as it's even harder to maintain your dignity when you're sopping wet — and navigated to shore through the rain on the inflatable dinghy he had rented. From there, he settled into the brisk, three hour cab drive to Bristol.
After far, far too long, he found himself at the steps of his destination, a modern, cosmopolitan villa, the kind that looks like a giant child got a little too silly with their building blocks. Brushing off his slacks to at least convince himself he could be presentable, he pressed a square button he assumed was the doorbell. Moments later, the door slid laterally to reveal a middle-aged woman in a cleanly-pressed dress and apron, holding a glass of red wine.
Casey gave a weak wave. "I'm here for, uh, Mister Erwan."
She squinted at him.
He pulled his bag off his shoulder and began rummaging, trying to produce an air of authenticity. "I… have… an… appointment…"
"Right," she said, raising a finger and mercifully breaking his awkward stride. "He's on the balcony. Right up the stairs, take a left."
Casey nodded in silent thanks, and proceeded into the home. It looked brand new — some of the walls were only half-painted in a garish fruit-basket of colors, and white canvas was draped over much of the furniture. He tread up the stairs, careful not to brush against any wet paint.
Just as described, he found himself on the balcony. The rain kept coming down, but here it was deflected, bouncing off an invisible shield, keeping the balcony totally dry. Casey saw his target, a old man reclining in a geometric lounge-chair, clad in a grey suit and smoking something that glowed blue.
"Mister Erwan?"
The man's head snapped to look at Casey. He grinned, wrinkling his whole face. "Yes! Sit down, please." His voice had an engineered friendliness, with a tinge of an approachable Southern drawl.
Casey obliged, finding a spot next to Erwan. "I was let in by your wife?"
He let out a belly laugh, which was not an expected response to this admittedly shaky statement of fact. "Pah. Suppose I got my money's worth, then." He clicked his tongue. "Androids."
"Oh."
"Yep. Brand-new."
Casey searched for common ground. "That's pretty impressive, considering what happened to Anderson."
He grinned in that smug way, and sat back. "Anderson's old hat now. Destruction provides the perfect opportunity for brighter innovators to get their share."
Casey nodded, clinging to that thread of interest. "Well, that's a good point, and it's precisely why I'm here."
He laughed again. "Of course, of course. Let me tell you: I have always been a fan of Iris Arts. And it's a shame, a damn shame, that you all should be limited to dealing in the shadows. You want more, and I respect that. Migrating a business as prominent as yours outside of the pocket dimensions is hard work, and the Feds won't appreciate missteps. I'd certainly be willing to provide the cover, the resources, the manpower, to make the transition as smooth as it could possibly be."
Erwan had laid out the pitch, to be sure. Now it was time for the most essential part of the negotiation process.
Casey nodded, folding his hands on his lap. "Yep."
Erwan cleared his throat. "Hm?"
"Oh, uh, yeah, you got it. Hit the nail, right on its… right on the head."
The man sat up, eyebrows raised. "Surely you must have questions. The process of establishing a foothold outside the Veil is-"
Casey was already waving his hand. "Oh, yes, of course, we got the pitch. You just get in contact with Mr. Regent. I'm sure he can find time for you. Work out the plan a bit further."
Erwan's flow was broken. "I'll do that."
Hook, line, and sinker.
Casey stood up, cracking a smile. "Glad to meet with you. I really should be getting back to my hotel, though."
Erwan tried to reciprocate, but his smugness had been drained. "I won't keep you, then."
Casey turned to go, striding down the stairs. He had almost made it out the door when he heard someone call his name. He turned back. It was the android.
She smiled at him, more naturally than before. "Mister Erwan wanted me to give you this. It's a gift for your employer." She was holding out a skinny white box, about the length of her hand.
Casey nodded to her, taking it in his hand. It had a surprising heft for its size. "Thanks. I'll make sure he gets it."
"Perfect. Have a nice night." She gave him one last wave, and then the door closed, and Casey set off back home where he would soon, against his own will-

"Hey. Hey. You okay?"
Casey shook his head, jarred from his daze. "What? Where am I? What's going on?"
Troy rolled his eyes. "We're here. C'mon."
Casey scanned his surroundings. The rickshaw was parked in front of a squat white building, evidently near the edge of Portlands, as he could see the streets continuing on into emptiness, the buildings beginning to repeat and grow indistinct, imitating an infinite sprawl. This was where you lived when you wanted to not be bothered.
He got to his feet, nearly stumbling onto the pavement. Troy grabbed his arm, keeping him steady, and sighed.
Together, they entered the building. Troy flashed some sort of badge at a hidden camera, and the doors slid open. Through a plain corridor they went, and then into a room with a label Casey didn't bother to read.
The room would have been a revolutionary office workplace thirty years ago. Filing drawers were inlaid to the walls, studded by blank video screens. A handful of desks with curvy chairs were scattered about the office, their surfaces burdened by piles of files, books, tomes, tablets, and sometimes the other kind of tablets.
Troy swept some dust off a chair, and guided Casey to sit down. Once he was positioned satisfactorily, Troy stood up once more. "Welcome to the archives of the Three Portlands headquarters of the Chaos Insurgency."
Casey squinted. "What is any of this for? Why did you bring me here?"
"This," the man gestured around himself, "is the nucleus of our intelligence operations in this city. With all this info, I think we can help each other. Some mutual exchange."
Casey nodded, slowly. "Where is everyone?"
"We're a bit understaffed. Most of our regulars are pulled in for errands at the beehive Earthside. But what we do perform here is very important."
"Perform?"
"Well, Command is quite fond of Three Portlands. It's a rich city, an admirable anomalous community. They have a great respect for its people. I have a great respect, too. We want them to feel the same way about us."
"So you surveil them?"
"I was not aware you had a moral high ground, mister manslaughter."
Casey blanched.
"Okay, that was harsh. Sorry. Look. We collect this information because if we don't, we'll get caught off guard when things happen. And I think you'll agree that things are happening."
"Besides what happened to me?"
Troy leaned in and lowered his voice. "Look. There have been 'incidents'. Like yours. Absence of motive, planning, coordination. Perpetrator dies immediately after. Someone's getting people to take the fall for their dirty work. Look here."
He stood up straight again, and started rummaging through a file drawer. He pulled out a plain white file folder, and dropped it in front of Casey. He gently picked it up, thumbing through it. Proprietors of coffee shops. Artists. Performers. Politicians. Police. All murdered by people who worked near them. Closed cases, all of them.
Casey settled on the last image, a forensic photograph of a man spread-eagle on the floor of his study, his head clearly having been pummeled by a blunt object.
Troy looked over his shoulder. "Thoughts?"
"Uh, I doubt it. I mean, look at the state of his-"
"I meant your thoughts."
"Oh. I think he's dead."
Troy sighed. "Yes. And the person who killed him had as little control as you did."
"How do you know?"
"Well," Troy managed to smile to himself, even now, "the funny thing about complex data analysis is that it's more of an art than a science. Oneiroi is hardly the only corporation capable of applying it to meatspace. You'd be surprised what you can do with moxie and a sufficiently advanced supercomputer."
He continued, "Whoever did this wanted to appear unpredictable, which is totally predictable for a conspiracy. You pump enough background data into a machine, and you can have a list of the most expected places for crime to happen. Then you wait at the ones where it's least likely to happen. Those are the expectedly unexpected locations."
Casey furrowed his brow. "You just bet I was going to kill someone in Iris Arts today?"
"Not necessarily you. But someone."
"Then what am I doing here?"
"See, you, you are different from the others. You didn't kill yourself. Because you didn't take the murder weapon with you."
"Wait, they killed themselves here?"
"Oh, god, no. They didn't make it nearly this far."
Casey gulped.
Troy only doubled down on his cheer. "But, look. You're here now. Whatever meme, hazard, whatever, is in your brain, we can study it. We can fix it. I can take you to the bunker, Earthside. We have some of the best memeticists in the business. And trust me, if things keep going how they're going, you'll be glad to be out of here."
Casey flinched. "No, I- I can't just get up and leave. I have people here."
Troy's smile faltered. "I understand that, but you're caught between a rock and a hard place here. You stay, at best, you won't make any difference. At worst, well, once the word gets out, the authorities aren't going to take you on your word that you didn't mean to murder your boss."
Casey squeezed his eyes shut. His head was pounding. "I can't. I'm sorry."
Troy sighed bitterly. "I guess I have to try again. Do you think I was close to convincing you? Or should I try a different tactic?"
Troy was turning around, but he had something in his hand. An aerosol can. Every soul in Three Portlands knew what that meant: amnestics.
Troy clicked his tongue. "I suppose I'll play it by ear. Always have time." He undid the safety clasp on the aerosol can, and began to turn back around to face Casey—
—but something knocked into him from behind, nearly pushing him over. A round metal object pressed into the small of his back. He inhaled sharply.
Casey enunciated slowly. "I didn't leave the weapon behind. Hands behind your head."
Troy gritted his teeth, complying. Casey pulled the can from his grasp.
"You know this can't work, right? What do you think the chances are that the bug in your head wants you to do this? To go back into public so you can self-destruct?"
Casey didn't respond.
"What are the chances that you're not even you right now? That you wouldn't even attempt this if not for that thing worming around in your brain?"
"You've manipulated me all day," Casey said, "and now you're concerned I'm not acting authentically?"
"Well, you see, the thing about that is-" A spray of amnestic gas cut Troy's excuse short. Casey held down the trigger until nothing came out.
Troy's body collapsed, limp.
Casey dropped the stapler he was holding. And then the newly-empty can of amnestics.
He dropped to kneel next to the downed man, listening carefully for a moment. He was still breathing.
Casey held his head in his hands for a moment. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the files on the desk, all the hard data the Chaos Insurgency had on what was going on in Three Portlands. He grabbed the file, and made his way to the outside.
It was dark out. How long had he been in there?
At least, if he was on this side of the city, he couldn't be too far from a certain sort of shelter. So he started walking.

Casey stood on the steps of a building, built like a courthouse, on the outskirts of Three Portlands. Ornate pillars surrounded the home, almost enveloping the front door entirely. Through the darkness, he could still make out the bronze nameplate over the door, which read "E. Rowe".
The home of his boyfriend's father was perhaps not the best safe haven. But it was the best option Casey had.
Hands shaking, he pressed the doorbell, and waited.

On the slick linoleum floor of the Headquarters of the Three Portlands Cell of the Chaos Insurgency, Agent Troy was jarred to consciousness by the tune of Come On Eileen.
He shot up to a sitting position, coughing up air tasting of battery acid and lemon. He had no idea how he got here, or what he had been doing for at least the last few hours.
As he blinked his eyes open, he saw the forgotten backpack and ringing phone of an unknown person who clearly appreciated 80's classics. Lying haphazardly in the corner of the room, he saw an empty can of amnestics.
"Shit."

On the other side of Three Portlands, a woman in a pantsuit closed her flip-phone, her call having received no response.
Minutes earlier, she had been in the parking lot of a Chipotle Mexican Grill in Portland, Oregon. Now, she was wreathed in unfamiliar scents, dazed by the winding streets and flashing strobe lights of a city that didn't seem possible.
She put away her phone, and fished out her wallet, for the picture she had of her target. The easy way had failed, but she had become accustomed to doing things the hard way anyhow.
Vera K. Garcia cracked her knuckles. Time to get to work.

« A Confluence of Clandestine Conferences | Hub | Automatic Stop »


Sierra Dustin reached into her coat and pulled a handgun out of the small painting titled 'Gun No. 44', which was taped to the inside lining.

« Permanent Waves || HUB || Moving Pictures »
March 22nd, 2017
Backdoor SoHo
Sierra Dustin reached into her coat and pulled a handgun out of the small painting titled Gun No. 44, which was taped to the inside lining. Not bothering to aim, she fired off six shots down the street behind her — in approximately the general direction of her pursuers — then threw the empty revolver after them. Without breaking her stride, she reached into the coat again…
A relatively short distance away, two FBI agents and a chainsmoker were attempting to catch her.
"Since when the hell did anartists use guns in SoHo?" Spencer shouted, keeping his arm raised in the hopes that the ballistic fibers woven into his suit would protect his head.
"Since now!" Green shouted back. The Foundation agent was surprisingly fit for someone whose lungs would likely fail an emissions test. "Better question: Where the fuck are they all coming from?"
"Gotta be an exploit of some kind," Thorne said, voice inappropriately level for the circumstances. A very attentive — and fearless (or bulletproof) — bystander would have noticed that their eyes were half-closed. "I'm not picking up any traces of ARad."
"How delightful," Green muttered.
Some forty meters ahead of them, Sierra Dustin ducked around a corner and disappeared from view. Spotting a local Not Another Fucking Starbucks, she took careful aim at a display advertising literally bottomless coffee and fired.
The three agents turned the corner and ran straight into an onrushing wall of lukewarm espresso.

The cleanup took three hours.
"Three dead — two from gunshots — and fifteen hospitalized so far from coffee related injuries," Thorne reported as they rejoined Spencer and Green. All three of them stood off to the side of the street, smelling strongly of espresso and surveying the wreckage.
"Christ, what a colossal fuckup," Spencer said. He shook his head. "We dropped the ball, this is our fault."
"Your fault," Green said, finishing off his third consecutive cigarette. "If we'd had an MTF like I wanted —"
"You can take your MTF and shove it up your ass," Spencer said, cutting him off. "It's bad enough having you here."
Thorne sighed internally and inserted themself between the two men. Two months of forced collaboration had not done any favors for their clashing egos. "Let's not add any more casualties to that list, hmm? Green, you know we'd never have been able to get a fully geared strike team past the Doorman. And Ken, you can be civil. I've seen you do it."
The two other agents continued to glare at each other, so Thorne continued, "We've still got a rat to catch, so Ken, why don't you take the Randall detector and make a sweep down the nearby streets? See if you can pick up on any recently opened Ways."
Spencer looked away from Green and nodded slowly. "Gods know how many people took a Way out after that flood, but I can try." He looked back at Green suspiciously. "What will he be doing?"
"Green and I will go back to the apartment and make a sweep for anything that can give us a link," Thorne said. "Who knows, maybe we can still salvage this."
Green lit up his fourth cancerstick. "When this is over, Spencer, you and I are gonna have a long talk about where MTFs should and should not go."
"I look forward to hearing it."
Thorne rolled their eyes. Grabbing Green by the shoulder, they started to walk back towards Dustin's apartment. "Come on skipper, let's go."
As they walked around the corner, Green turned his head just in time to see Spencer perform a mock salute with a certain single finger.

"Doesn't look like the door's booby trapped. Not with anything occult, at least."
"Yeah, but didn't you say those guns were non-occult? There could be some awful exploit on the other side waiting to turn our brains inside out."
Inside the apartment, Madrigal stirred at the sound of unfamiliar voices from outside.
"Who would keep something that lethal inside their own apartment? That would be absurd."
"You'd be surprised. Anartists are pretty big on absurdism."
Madrigal was a simple creature with very few needs. Almost none, in fact. Constructs weren't known for being high maintenance pets. It was why they were so common among the more eccentric anartists, many of whom would often forget to feed themselves, much less their pets.
The lock clicked and the door swung open with a creak.
"See? Nothing to worry about."
In the three years of its not-quite-life, the brass wire had known only one person, and that was the Creator. And while it knew many things, it knew one thing above all else: It loved the Creator.
Neither of the two new people who had just entered the apartment were the Creator, and so Madrigal hated them with all the fury that a three-foot-long spool of animated wire could muster.

"Ow, fuck!" Green shouted, which is the natural reaction to being stabbed in the calf by a three-foot-long spool of animated wire.
Reacting purely on instinct, Thorne reached down and grabbed the wire with both hands. The brass construct thrashed violently as they pulled it away from Green, but a shouted word in a dead language stopped it.
Thorne threw the paralyzed construct back into the apartment with one hand, using their other hand to shove the still-swearing Green back out into the hall. Thorne backpedaled after him, pausing only to slam the door shut behind them.
"I fucking told you!" Green hissed through gritted teeth. He slumped against the far wall, clutching his injured leg tightly.
"And does knowing you were right make you feel any better?" Thorne asked. They crouched down next to the wounded agent, scanning the hall for any further dangers.
"No it does not!" Blood was starting to well up beneath his fingers.
"Well then try not to bleed on the carpet too much while I get my first aid kit out." They reached into their jacket and pulled out a box that couldn't possibly have fit inside a pocket.
"Try not to — are you serious? That fucking thing stabbed me in the leg!"
"Which will be appreciated by any wizard who gets a hold of your blood, I'm sure."
After sliding on a pair of latex gloves, Thorne removed a large cloth rag from the box and slid it beneath Green's leg. Drops of crimson began to stain the gray fabric almost immediately.
"I'm gonna need you to move your hand," they said. From the box, they removed a bottle of something that looked like water, but probably wasn't.
Begrudgingly, Green lifted his hand, revealing a nasty gash where Madrigal had stabbed him. Thorne uncapped the bottle and poured the contents over the wound, eliciting another hiss from Green.
"Anti-occult sterilizing rinse," Thorne explained. "Should neutralize any curses that might have been on that thing, along with most mundane pathogens."
Setting the bottle aside, Thorne picked up a vial of brownish-green powder and showed it to Green. "And this is a fast-acting coagulant. Word of warning, this is going to suck really bad."
Working quickly, Thorne poured some of the powder onto a strip of gauze and pressed it firmly against the wound.
To his credit, Green didn't scream.
Thorne pulled off their gloves and shoved them in a biowaste bag, which went back into the box. They handed Green a roll of cloth bandages, then put the first aid kit back into their jacket.
"Stay here and wrap that up tight," they said.
"Don't tell me you're going back in there alone," he said.
Thorne shrugged nonchalantly. "I can handle myself, skipper. Be back soon."
And with that, they disappeared into the apartment.

Thorne returned a few minutes later, a self-satisfied grin on their face and the brass wire held in their hands.
"What's that?" Green asked, eyeing the wire suspiciously.
"It was a construct," Thorne said, emphasizing the past tense. "Bit of wire animated with thaumaturgy. There's no emet inscribed on it anywhere, so it couldn't have been very intelligent. Basically just a dumb animal."
Green pulled himself to his feet, wincing as he put weight on his injured leg. "And it's dead?"
"Can't kill something that wasn't alive to begin with," Thorne said. "But yeah, it's dead."
"So why are you carrying it around?"
"Law of Contagion," they said. "Thaumaturgy goes both ways. Our little friend put a bit of herself into this to animate it — not enough for me to target her with thaumaturgy, but enough that I can use it to track her. She can't hide now."
Still grinning, Thorne slid the length of wire into another impossibly large jacket pocket. "Come on, let's go see how Spencer's doing."

They found Spencer in an alley near the coffee shop, waving the metal wand of the Randall detector slowly through the air. Occasionally, the box it was attached to would beep quietly to indicate the amount of ARad flux.
"Any luck?" Thorne called out.
"Eh, not much. It's like I said, there's too many Ways here to pinpoint the one our rat took." He turned to look at the approaching duo. "What happened to him?"
"There was a trap," Green muttered, stopping to lean against the alley wall for support. Thorne's dressing might have stopped the bleeding, but it hadn't done anything for the underlying tissue damage.
"So I take it that the apartment was a bust then?"
"Not quite," Thorne said. They withdrew the length of wire from their jacket and held it up to the light.
"You got a link?" There was a note of cautious optimism in his voice.
"Indeed I did. Now let's see if we can't find this Way."
Thorne rummaged in their suit pockets for a moment until they withdrew a bit of semi-translucent quartz and length of string, then proceeded to tie the quartz to the wire with the string. The lump of crystal dangled loosely in the air. Thorne closed their eyes and started humming quietly to themself.
After a moment, the crystal abruptly swung upwards and sideways in defiance of gravity, pulling the string taut. The line it formed pointed further down the alley.
Thorne opened their eyes and nodded in satisfaction. "Follow me, gentlemen."
The three agents picked their way through the alley, following the directions of the occult compass Thorne had created. In deference to Green's injury, the two FBI agents kept a slower pace.
They stopped a few minutes later in a different alley when the crystal dropped downwards under the force of gravity again. Wherever the anartist had fled to, her trail ended there.
"There's definitely a Way here," Spencer said, waving the Randall detector through the air experimentally. "Looks like it was opened pretty recently too."
Thorne closed their eyes and nodded. "I can see it."
"Great," Green said. "Now what?"
Thorne opened their eyes and clapped their hands together. "Now we do some real magic."

Thorne had the other two agents clear a space near the Way, moving aside the random detritus of the alley until there was an unobstructed area nearly two meters across.
Once again, Thorne reached into their jacket of holding, removing in turn two energy bars, three large candles, a length of string, a protractor, a stick of chalk, a knife (which Thorne called an athame), several strips of cloth, and a folded sheaf of papers.
"I really wish we'd thought to bring a Resonator with us," they said. "Would make this a lot easier." They unwrapped one of the energy bars — a 'Compact Meal Bar by Prometheus Labs', according to the label — and started eating.
"So what's all this for?" Green asked. "I've seen Navarro in action, and he just kind of waves his hands until something's on fire."
"Well I'm not Daniel Fucking Navarro, am I?" Thorne said. "Thaumaturgy's no cakewalk to begin with, and forcibly tearing open a Way between worlds is even worse. This —" They gestured at the assembled equipment. "— Is all to redirect the backlash so that we don't end up dead. Or worse."
Thorne picked up the chalk and, using the string as a makeshift compass, drew a circle in the middle of the clearing. Then, using the protractor to check the angles, they marked off nine points around the circle, each 40 degrees apart. With the string as a straight edge, Thorne connected them together to form three overlapping triangles, with a nonagon in the center.
Thorne stepped back to survey their work, then nodded.

"Now for the tricky part," they said. "Shame I don't have a sigil machine for this bit, but I think I can freehand it. Hand me those papers please, Ken."
Spencer passed the folded sheaf to Thorne, who unfolded it to reveal a set of pages photocopied from what could only have been a grimoire.
Very slowly, Thorne began inscribing a set of runes inside the circle, taking care to keep the lines straight and the angles precise, erasing the symbols and redoing them if they weren't satisfactory. After several minutes of this, Thorne finished by drawing a diamond in the middle of the nonagon, bisecting it with a single line drawn from the center of the circle.
"There, I think I got the runes right."

Carefully stepping over the chalk lines, Thorne placed the three candles around the circle, next to the runes which they said stood for fire. They left the candles unlit.
"And now for the hard part," they said, picking up the athame and stepping into the center of the circle. "Whatever you do, don't step on the lines. Understand?"
The other two agents nodded, and Green took a cautious step back from the edge of the circle.
Holding the athame tightly, Thorne slowly drew it across the palm of their left hand, just barely breaking the skin. Still moving slowly, they turned the athame over and held the flat against the cut, until the blade was smeared with blood.
Taking a deep breath, Thorne raised the knife into the air and held it there.
Time seemed to slow.
Thorne brought the knife down, slicing through the air.
"Open." The word was barely a whisper, but there was a preternatural power behind it that gave it volume far beyond sound or speech.
The chalk lines of the circle glowed, blindingly bright. The candles burst into flames that stretched three feet into the air. The light flashed off the athame, casting unnatural shadows against the walls.
And in the center of the circle, the air tore open beneath the knife, revealing a Way between worlds.
Thorne stumbled back, gasping for air but still taking care not to step on the lines. They slumped against a pile of cardboard boxes, letting the knife clatter to the ground.
"Power bar," they said, still panting heavily. Spencer handed the remaining energy bar to them, and they devoured it rapidly.
"You okay?" He asked.
Thorne nodded. "Yeah. Just give me a minute, I'll be alright."
They picked up one of the cloth strips and used it to bandage their hand, then used the remaining cloth to clean the athame, which went back into their jacket.
Breathing more regularly now, Thorne stood up and said, "The Way will stay open as long as the candles are burning. That gives us an hour, maybe two tops, to find Dustin and get out. I should be able to open the Way again if it closes while we're still in there, but I don't really want to chance it."
Spencer nodded, then looked at Green. "You up for this, skipper?"
Green smiled fiercely. "Don't you ever doubt it. Let's get this bastard."
Spencer grinned back. "That's what I like to hear."
Then, as one, the three agents stepped through the Way.
« Permanent Waves || HUB || Moving Pictures »


October 24th
On the western part of the Hubble estate, there was a sign that proudly proclaimed "Birthplace of Gourdon, Largest Pumpkin in Wisconsin, 1969". Behind it was a pumpkin patch which, during any other year, would be filled with families looking for suitable fruits to carve into Jack-O-Lanterns. It would have had several colors of pumpkin, from red to orange to white to blue.
But now, on top of everything else, the patch was full of pits, and around those holes were bright red, bloody pumpkins, which were in the process of being collected, at which point the vines were incinerated. Each of the pits contained at least one skeleton, and nobody could explain it. The Hubbles weren't serial killers, or if they were, the Foundation didn't know about it.
Watching this carnage were Christopher Hastings and Keith Partridge. The latter was sipping from a travel mug, shivering in the cold morning air.
Partridge put away his phone and frowned. "Still no response from Hennessy about my theory."
"She's getting security clearances pinned to her like thumbtacks on a conspiracy theorist's corkboard," Hastings sighed. "She doesn't exactly have much time to take requests. Probably half the reason she called Code Vandal in the first place."
Dr. Malcolm Guillard climbed out of one of the pits. He was a robust man, and his years of digging in the dirt and hauling bodies as a member of the Foundation's forensic studies division had given him a surprising amount of muscle mass. He presented to the pair of botanists what looked like a human skull. However, the size of the incisors and the large, ridged plate on the front of the skull showed it was most certainly not human. "Well, this might, might explain the vam-pie-er."
Partridge groaned at the pun. "One, I made that joke the other day. Two, that was completely unprofessional."
"Not as bad as this," Hastings took the skull, carefully and held it in his hand, away from his face. He looked at Partridge and Guillard, and began speaking in a theatrical voice. "Alas, poor Edward. I knew him, Jacob, a fellow of infinite sleaziness, of most godawful writing. I hath borne him in my eyes but once, and now, how abhorred in my memory! Here hung those lips Bella kissed I know not how oft—"
"Hastings," Partridge laughed. "Stop! I'm going to spill my coffee!"
A good part of the forensics team who had been in earshot had leaned against the sides of their pits, snickering, and Guillard just palmed his face. "All right, comedy night is over," he said, looking over the pits. "A dozen bodies. God knows what the Hubbles were up to. We're bringing his family into the PD in Duluth for questioning."
Hastings handed the skull back to Guillard and took out his notepad, starting to sketch and plot the locations of the bodies. He connected the dots in a few different variations, and took out his phone. "Dammit. Anyone have Reynolds's number?"
"Why?" Guillard frowned.
"I think that this might be some kind of ritual circle, the way the bodies are arranged. He and Sinclair are finally signing the relationship declaration forms, so I figured I should just facetime him or something."
"I have him on my phone," Partridge took out his smartphone and dialed Reynolds. "How do you do a video call on this?"
"Here," Hastings walked back over, and fiddled with a phone. One very annoying dialtone later, they were connected to the face of Montgomery Reynolds.
"Hastings, glad to see you're all right," the thaumatologist commented. He was in the Occult Studies laboratory, a large bottle of golden liquid behind him. "I'm expecting Katherine soon. You're at the Hubble estate?"
"Yeah, and we found bodies. Twelve of them." He held up his notepad to the phone's camera. "I plotted them out. Any of these look like anything to you?"
Reynolds frowned, and pointed at the camera. "That one, with the shape like an electrocardiogram's output. Add a thirteenth point to it, and you have a Granola Sarkic ritual for promoting bountiful harvest."
"I'm sorry, Granola What?" Hastings asked.
"Granola Sarkic. It's a valid branch of Sarkic carnomancy, though no Karcist will tell you that. Popped up in the sixties, promoted the use of human sacrifice for the sake of natural harmony— higher crop yields, the ability to commune with animals, that sort of thing. Well, human-ish sacrifice."
"Would vampire qualify as Humanish?" he held up the phone to face the vampire's skull.
Reynolds whistled. "That explains where poor Mr. Hubble got his infection from, at least. Vampiric sacrifice in carnomancy isn't unheard of, but it's risky, for this exact reason." He rubbed his chin. "The Foundation registers all known mages in Nexus zones it controls, and they bar any dangerous cult activity within them."
"So, what the fuck was a Sarkic cultist doing in Sloth's Pit?" Hastings's face screwed up."This isn't right."
"We'll begin looking into it as soon as we can." Reynolds frowned. "There are only twelve bodies?"
"As far as we can tell," Guillard piped up.
"There should be thirteen. Look for signs of soil disturbance, one of them may have been moved or removed. A broken spell matrix would account for the bloody pumpkins."
"Where would the thirteenth point in the matrix be?"
Reynolds leaned closer to the camera. "If up on your diagram is north, then, then it would most likely be at the eastern-most point of the matrix."
"Thanks, Monty. Give my regards to Sinclair when you see her. Oh, and congratulations." Hastings disconnected the call and handed the phone back to Partridge.
"How old are the bodies?" Partridge asked.
"They easily date to the 1960s, if not earlier," Malcolm pointed at each of the pits. "Other than the vampire, we have three that show signs of polio, one with a lead slug in the hip that one of the ballistic guys thinks dates to World War Two, and a male with a Class of '63 ring from Jackson Sloth Memorial."
"So, locals," Hastings frowned, making his way to the easternmost spot on the farming patch. The shifted his foot in the dirt, and frowned. He brushed the topsoil aside with his foot, and found a skull's eye socket staring out from beneath the dirt. "Yeah, there's something buried here." He knelt to inspect the skull, frowning. "Huh."
"What is it?" Guillard frowned.
Chris carefully lifted the skull from the dirt, and shone a light into its jaw. "There's a taproot growing through the skull." He turned it over, finding a wilted dandelion on the opposite side. "This was… maybe not dug up. But pushed to the surface by something."
Guillard presented Hastings with a slab of gel, and Chris pressed the skull's teeth into it. "How long will it take to get a result from the imprint?" Chris asked.
"Well, looking at it now, I can tell you that it's from a male, late fifties. Probably killed by a blow to the head." The investigator indicated a large crack on the top of the skull. "Maybe by a baseball bat or something?"
Chris shook the skull, and frowned. Something small and metal rattled about inside. He tilted the head back, and out of the hole at the base, a key fell out. He caught it, and read the inscription. "'Key to the City of Sloth's Pit, awarded by Clive Carter to Marian Carter, 1969.' Good to know that nepotism is eternal." He frowned. "You said that this was a man's skull, though."
"It is." Guillard chewed his lip, and looked at the teeth. "He has a porcelain crown. So, definitely pre-50s; that's around when they started using amalgam fillings. Key was placed in their skull after." He took the key from Chris's hand. "Pretty recently, too. There's some wet mud on this, still."
Chris scratched his head, and started pacing. "What does that mean, though? Why would someone dig up a skull and place the key to the city in it?" The researcher stumbled, his foot getting caught in a hole. "What the hell?!"
"Calm down, Hastings." Partridge looked within. "Looks like a critter hole. Probably a woodchuck or something. Move your foot."
"I can't," Hastings swallowed. "It's stuck. I—" He felt something squeeze his leg. "Oh shit, something's got me. I-It feels like a snake."
"Shit, probably a joint snake hole." Guillard produced a knife. "I'm going to cut off your pant leg, and we're gonna peel it off, okay?"
"O-okay," Hastings swallowed. He winced when the fabric was cut from his pants.
Guillard backed away. "That's… not a snake."
"What, then?" He asked.
"It's," Partridge swallowed. "It's a root. Maybe a vine."
"Oh. Shit — " Hastings gasped and sank to his knees, the root sinking under the ground and pulling his legs with it. He felt himself being pulled under. "Fuck, fuck, it's got me, it's pulling me." He quickly removed his shirt and put it over his face, trying to claw at the dirt. At the very least, he wouldn't inhale dirt when he got dragged under. He gasped and whimpered. "Shit, I think it's gonna break my leg —"
The two senior researcher stood back, and Partridge spoke into his phone. "Helen, b-begin phone tracking of Site-87 r-research personnel Christopher Hastings."
Chris swallowed, tears in his eyes. "If I don't… if you don't find me, the research I got for you, Doc— it's in my desk, locked drawer. Break in if you have to."
"Understood." Partridge swallowed, and told the same lie he'd told countless other personnel who had gone missing in the line of duty. "You're going to be okay, Hastings."
Chris felt a sharp tug, and gasped. His leg wasn't broken, but at least one joint was dislocated. He wrapped his arms around himself and took a long, deep breath, before he was tugged underneath.
"Son of a bitch," Partridge rubbed his face. Hastings had performed protocol to a T; suffocation prevention, minimizing surface area and protecting the chest when being dragged, not attempting to be pulled out and drag others with him. He was smart, and he might be gone. "Call March. Tell him we need a squad of Sigma-10 scrambled yesterday."

Christopher Hastings felt his skin being scraped away by Wisconsin soil. Thousands of insects, rocks, and roots peeled off his flesh, bit by bit, and he felt blood trickle into the soil. Some part of his mind was thankful for his tetanus shots, but that was soon drowned out by the pain.
Then, he started being dragged lower by the roots, beneath the ground. At this point, he doubted his phone would broadcast any signal. But if by some miracle it did, at least they'd be able to find his body.
The Foundation had a high mortality rate in most professions, and botany was certainly up there. Between dealing with poisonous flowers and trees that could eat you, botanists could be gone through like tissue paper. It seemed far too appropriate that he'd be killed by a plant.
He felt himself start to run out of air. His vision started going grey, and his body went limp. It was better than being eaten or squashed. Relatively painless. And then—
He found himself exposed to air, and gasped, coughing and gagging. The root let go of his leg, and the researcher fell in the dirt, whimpering in pain. Above him was the ceiling of a large cavern— he estimated to be about thirty meters high, and some light coming from a crack in the ceiling meant that he may be close to the surface.
Hastings crawled forward, not wanting to test the condition of his leg. He closed his eyes, forcing them to adjust to the darkened surroundings. He saw something along the top of the cavern— some form of root system, most likely the pumpkin he had been taken by. But the actual plant was nowhere in sight.
Chris saw what he had landed on, and let out a miserable groan. He had fallen on top of a half-buried skeleton, with its clothing still intact. The chest cavity of the skeleton had plant matter in it, pumpkins fused together to form facsimiles of organs. Vines splayed out from these plants, which pulsed and seemed to breathe; the 'heart' and 'lungs' were the most active. Chris felt its body, finding its pants and rooting through them. Technically mistreatment of a corpse, but he needed something to do while waiting to die.
He found its wallet, and looked inside. The contents were three-hundred dollars in small bills, a membership card for the "Sloth's Pit Hunter's Club" (defunct as of 1988 due to an explosion that flattened their lodge), a driver's license for one Clive Carter, and a Polaroid photograph, folded up.
"Hello, Clive. Guess we know where the key came from." He looked down at the organs. "Trying to tell us where you were?" Chris unfolded the photograph, and found a picture of four men standing in front of a Ferris wheel, smiling at the camera. The youngest among them, Chris recognized, was Jeffery Hubble Senior. The three others were unknown to him.
On the reverse side of the Polaroid, in pen, was:

C. Carter, J. Hubble, R. Gideon, & Z. Allen
10/26/69
Douglas County Fair Organization Committee
Photo by M. Isimeria

Hastings took out his phone, and snapped photographs of the Polaroid's front and back. Then, he placed the phone on the ground, propped it against the skeleton, and set it to record video.
"If the words 'esoteric containment' mean nothing to you, stop watching." He paused, and rubbed his eyes. "My name is Christopher Hastings. I'm a researcher at S & C Plastics in Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin, known internally as Foundation Site-87. I am in a cavern approximately… I don't know, deep below Nexus Zone 18, which includes the town of Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin.
"This cavern appears to have a complex root structure on the ceiling, leading me to believe that… this is inhabited by some form of fruit-bearing vine organism, originating from pumpkins that have replaced the organ systems of one Clive Carter. Hold on." He retrieved the phone. "I'm activating the flashlight to get a better view of the cavern."
He turned on the flash bulb on the camera, illuminating the ceiling with a gasp. "Oh my god."
On the ceiling were scarecrows, hung upside-down. There were fifteen of them, moving along the vines like they were on conveyor belts, occasionally enveloped in plant matter, emerging with new parts; newly attached limbs, a different head, and a hat. The process was slow, and a single scarecrow took half an hour to complete. Hastings was glad he had a high-capacity memory chip in his phone.
"These are where the scarecrows are coming from," he swallowed, bringing the camera down. "I think this may be where everyone around town was taken to, to be… converted. But that doesn't explain why they started up—" he looked at Clive's skeleton, inspecting his head. "Cracks in the skull. Blow to the head might have killed him; did Hubble throw you down here?" He touched the breathing pumpkins. "Maybe he was using you to… as an extra power source for his ritual? I…" Chris's head pulsed. "Shit."
He aimed his camera at the ceiling. "It seems that your hypothesis was correct, Dr. Partridge," Chris swallowed. "The scarecrows do, in fact, originate from plant matter. The plants present in the body of Clive Carter appear to be mimicking the functions of organs long after death. Current hypothesis: the plant-organs pushed the… skeleton found at the Hubble estate out of position, breaking the… spell matrix, and causing Jeffery Hubble's infection." He swallowed. "I'm going to attempt to destroy the heart analogue. I realize that this is seriously against Foundation policy, but at this point… my leg's dislocated, I'm bleeding from half my skin, and… shit, my knife's gone. Must have lost it while being dragged here."
Hastings looked at his phone. "I am going to attempt to use my phone as a blunt instrument to smash the outer casing of the heart analogue. This recording will cease, possibly resuming when… when I destroy it. Hastings out."
Hastings turned off his phone, and clutched it in his hand. It barely weighed half a pound, but all he had to do was nick the skin of the pumpkin. Then he could press his nails in and rip it apart. He forced his phone down onto the pumpkin, the screen glitching and cracking. Again, he brought it down, but it seemed to bounce off. Pumpkins had thick skin, and whatever this was wasn't willing to give way.
Still, one did not get into the Foundation without some ingenuity. The corners of the phone itself were blunted, but the battery within was a different story. He peeled off the back plastic covering, and extracted the battery from the phone. The corners were sharp enough that, with the right application of force, he could break through.
Hastings dug the corner of the battery into the pumpkin's skin, and pushed. It slowly gave, and as it did, the cavern around him started to rumble. The skeleton twitched, unseen by him. He twisted the battery in deeper, starting to see the pumpkin's guts leak out. But it stalled on something, a hard inner shell. "No, shit, dammit," he sobbed. "Fuck."
The skeleton's hands jumped up to grab Christopher's. The researcher gasped, and shut his eyes, fearing that it would be torn off. He prepared a scream, but instead, he felt the bones tug his hand downward, sharply, towards the pumpkin heart. The battery pierced the skin, and he felt it dig into the ground beneath.
The bony hands went limp, except for one finger, which wrote a message in the dirt.
THANK
YOU
It then drew a sloppy triangle, and laid still. All the other pumpkins withered, and Hastings's eyes followed the withering. It went up through the roots, the scarecrows dropping off the ceiling, the entire cave rumbling.
Christopher Hastings was tired. He clutched the phone in his hand, and laid besides the skeleton of Clive Carter. "You're welcome, mate," he said, eyes landing on a triangle. From his point of view, he realized that it was not a triangle, but a pyramid. This was the last thought that crossed his mind before he slept.

Christopher Hastings had no right to wake up, but he might, some day.
The researcher had been lifted out of the cavern and rushed, not to Site-87's trauma center, but to the recently commandeered St. Francis Memorial Hospital. Standing outside his room were Dr. Partridge and Dr. Claude Mattings, fresh out of psychological evaluation.
"How'd you find him?" Claude asked. "You said his tracker went dark."
"Whatever he did down there made every plant on the Hubble estate die out, and left a huge line of dead plant life from there to the cavern we found him in. Seems like it tapped into hundreds of root systems, and when it died, it all went…" he mimed a 'poof'.
"You said you had something for me?" Mattings asked.
Partridge nodded, taking the Polaroid out of his pocket. "We found Hastings clutching it." He gave a brief explanation as to the contents of the video he had recorded, as well as the wallet found by him. "I finished sending this information to Site-87's mailing list about forty minutes ago. We're seeing what we can piece together."
Mattings looked over the Polaroid. "Yeah. That Ferris wheel was in the anomaly Pickman and I encountered. I'm positive."
Partridge rubbed his face. He rubbed his face. "So, to recap…"
"Hubble's gone the way of Dracula, and Carter's body is beneath Sloth's Pit, filled with rotting plants. That leaves Z. Allen and R. Gideon, plus the photographer, M. Isimeria. We don't even know their gender." He handed the Polaroid back to Partridge. "Pickman… something happened to him over a photograph that showed evidence of Foundation presence in Sloth's Pit a full seven years before we officially knew it existed. Something doesn't want us finding out about what it was they did."
"You think it's something from within the Foundation?" Partridge asked.
"Of course not," Mattings frowned. "If it was, they'd have no reason to let me live. They could have had me trip and fall in the psych ward, or cut the brakes of my car on the way over here." He looked into Hasting's room and sighed. "Christ, he got beat badly."
"He'll live," Partridge sighed. "I finally got in touch with Hennessy. She's meeting with me tomorrow."
Mattings nodded. "That's good. I'm going to talk to Reese, see if she can fast-track botany's research into those vampire pumpkins. I—" Matting's phone began to ring. He fished it out, and smiled. "It's Cassandra. Do you mind?" he asked.
"Be my guest," Partridge waved at him and nodded.
Claude answered the phone. "Hello, hon. What's up?"
"Claude?" Cassandra's voice was quiet. "I need— I need help. Call the task force."
"What's wrong?" He straightened up.
"J-Jules said that she wanted to check something out at Equinox Ridge, a-and she dragged me and Fred along. When we got there, w-we were jumped. Jules got grabbed, b-but she's fine, we're in the van."
"Something jumped you? What?"
"I-It was something that was all b-black, wearing a black veil, and—"
"Did it have rotten teeth?" Claude's skin went cold.
"Yeah. Looked like dead leaves." There was a loud thunk from the other end. "Shit! Fred, can't this go any faster?"
A muffled response came from the other end.
"Hon, t-the van's breaking down. I…" she swallowed. "I think we're gonna have to run."
"I-I'm gonna help you, Cass. I promise." Claude yelled at Partridge "Get Sigma-10 on the horn now! We have personnel in danger at Equinox Ridge!"
Partridge fumbled with his phone, and started up a conversation with Harold March, the commander of Sigma-10.
There was a loud bang from the other side of Claude's phone call. "Holy SHIT!" a voice in the background called. Female; Juliette Hobb.
"The whole side of the van just buckled. Something's trying to get in," Cassie whispered. "We're going to run."
"Come back to me." Claude swallowed. "Please."
"I will." Cassie kept the call on, and there was the sound of a door opening, followed by the cry of "RUN!"
Hundreds of footsteps and thousands of minutes seemed to pass. Claude's phone was glued to his head as he heard the steps retreat. Then, a scream. The sound of plastic and glass hitting the forest floor. The call disconnecting.
Claude Mattings stood in the hallway of an almost-empty hospital, paralyzed. The soundtrack to his life turned into the electrocardiogram of a mercifully unconscious man, beeping away in the dark.

« Chapter 5 | Black Autumn Hub | Chapter 7 »


Timecode: 10/22/2017 23:49
Chad Darryl: The United States of America is the strangest country in the world. It's full of cryptids, ghosts, aliens, and the government covers it all up. But we know something they don't.
Chad Darryl: Throughout the USA, there are invisible lines of energy flowing through space, linking locations full of strange activity. We make it our job to route a course along these energy flows, and document everything we find. We are…
[Title Card Appears]
Chad Darryl: Following the Leylines.
[Title Jingle, cut to inside of a van. Four individuals are present: Chad Darryl, Caucasian, age 33, host of Following the Leylines; Monica Morse, African-American, age 29, self-proclaimed spiritual medium; Quincy Lee, Chinese-American, age 33, equipment manager. The driver is Markus Bradley, Caucasian, Age 28.]
Darryl: (Addressing the camera) Today, we've got a treat for you, true believers. We've got a live show, broadcasting on Twitch, for our Halloween special. For months, dozens of leylines have been pointing us in one direction.
[The Camera pans over a map of the state of Wisconsin, with a large, red circle scribbled around an area in the North-Western most part of the state]
Darryl: Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin. A remote town smack on the border with Minnesota, it's said to be the birthplace of dozens of urban legends. They say that the myth of the Hook-Handed Man originated from here, and that it's one of the most haunted places in the USA.
Lee: I'll believe that when I see it. Nothing can be worse than Ohio U.
Darryl: Maybe. Monica, what do you think?
Morse: It's… almost overwhelming. Hundreds— no, thousands of leylines converge here. It's a hotbed of all sorts of bizarre things. I see spirits, pumpkins, and… death. I feel a strong aura of death. [Morse swallows audibly.] This may have been a mistake.
[The van begins slowing down, before stopping. Muffled speech is heard outside.]
Darryl: What th— Mark, why'd you stop?
Bradley: There's a roadblock ahead. Bunch of people in jackets. I… wait, what's FEMA doing out here?
Darryl: You're kidding. [To Lee] Switch to the dash cam, now.
[Camera angle switches to a view from a camera behind a windshield. Outside, several men and women in black jackets with the letters "FEMA" printed on the back, with the insignia of the Federal Emergency Management Agency on their lapels. One of these individuals, a man with brown hair, approaches the van.]
FEMA Agent 1: Sir, I'm going to need you to turn around.
Bradley: What's going—
Darryl: Hold on, I'll do the talking. We're just trying to get into town, sir.
FEMA Agent 1: You can't. Town's under quarantine. Massive chemical spill from the plastics plant.
Darryl: What? There's nothing on the news about it. We're filming our Halloween special here.
FEMA Agent 1: Can't help you there. Duluth has a pretty cool haunted house, try there.
[The dash cam changes angle to view the FEMA Agent's face.]
Darryl: Look, it took us weeks to get permits to film here. Why a rinky-dink town is so protective of film rights is beyond me. We need to get through.
[A female voice is heard, muffled by the windshield]
FEMA Agent 1: What?
FEMA Agent 2: They have a fucking dash cam on you! I saw the douchebag turn it.
FEMA Agent 1: Ah, hell. All right, out of the vehicle, everyone.
Lee: It's within our rights to film a federal official.
FEMA Agent 1: I'm going to say this again. Out of the vehicle, now, and we'll let you go free. Otherwise, you're under arrest.
Bradley: FEMA agents can't do that.
FEMA Agent 1: What?
Darryl: I filmed in New Orleans after Katrina. FEMA Agents don't have the legal right to arrest US Citizens. Who the hell are you?
FEMA Agent 1: Oh, fuck this. [All FEMA agents draw firearms.] Out of the van, now.
Bradley: H-holy shit. What the fuck?
FEMA Agent 1: Everyone out now! Under the Whitman-Ross Act of 1960, you are all under arrest.
[A low rumbling is heard on the footage. Camera footage is filled with digital noise for several seconds, after which several scarecrows appear, surrounding the 'FEMA' agents.]
FEMA Agent 3: What the fuck?!
Darryl: Floor it.
Bradley: What?
Darryl: Fucking floor it! NOW!
Bradley: Holy shit—-
[The Van suddenly accelerates, knocking over the dash cam. The sounds of gunfire are heard, along with several screams and a splintering of wood as the van breaks through the barricade. Signal is lost.]

Timecode: 10/23/2017, 00:09
[Signal resumes. Footage is shown from an infra-red night vision camera; Darryl is operating it. He appears to be in a wooded area. The van is visible, and there are sounds of a hushed argument. Darryl attempts to shush them.]
Darryl: Hey, true believers. We, uh. We managed to get away from the…. so-called FEMA guys. Faux-ma? [Darryl covers his mouth and gasps.] This is crazy. We actually got shot at, this was not a stunt. I swear to god.
Lee: Show them the tires.
Darryl: Right, shit, okay. [Darryl focuses the camera on the rear left tire of the van; puncture marks are visible. Darryl digs their finger into the puncture, and produces what appears to be a bullet.]
Morse: This is f-f-fucked up. Those… scarecrows, that just… just came out of the ground. They felt… so evil. [Morse bends over, retching.]
Darryl: All right, we just… [Darryl points its camera at a series of lights in the distance] That's the town. We just need to get there, and find somewhere to hide. Act natural.
Bradley: Chad, what the hell? They said the town was under quarantine! We should just go back and surrender ourselves—
Darryl: Fuck that, we're broadcasting live to five-hundred-thousand people. Something's going on here that's worth shooting people over, and we're gonna capture it!
[Lee enters the shot, carrying four head-mounted cameras]
Lee: At least put these on. They're bad image quality, but they're easier to carry as opposed to lugging that monster around. [indicating the camera Darryl is holding]
Darryl: Okay, yeah. [Addressing the lens] I'm going to turn this off, now. We're gonna be broadcasting from GoPros from now on. I'll be Camera 1, Monica will be Camera 2, Quincy will be Camera 3, and Mark— Mark? [Darryl swings the camera around. Markus Bradley is not present in the shot. Analysis of the footage shows a figure approximately two-hundred meters away, hanging from a tree. Darryl does not appear to notice this.] What the fuck? Mark? Where are you?
Lee: C-cameras on. If we die, we need to capture this.
Morse: Great, we're going to be the world's first live snuff film. [Darryl, Lee and Morse all put on the wearable cameras.]
Darryl: Nobody's dying tonight. I promise. We just gotta stay quiet. Quincy you got—
[Camera feed abruptly disconnects]

Time Code: 10/23/2017, 00:20
[Connection reestablished. Only Camera 2, Monica Morse, is currently active. Darryl is visible in front of her, crouched against a wall. The camera briefly pans up to a street sign, indicating that they are at the corner of Main St. and Hodag Lane. Lee is heard behind her, panting loudly.]
Morse: Wait, I think my camera's finally working.
Lee: Must have found a wi-fi hotspot that's unsecured; looks like we're near some kind of coffee shop. Chad, what do you see?
Darryl: …nothing. Lights are on everywhere, but… nobody's home. I don't think we've even seen any cars on the street.
[Morse pushes forward, and views Main Street. A semi-translucent humanoid figure walks before the camera, which fills with digital noise. The body language of the figure indicates a reluctance to move forward.]
Morse: What the fuck?
Darryl: O-oh my god. Th-that looks almost corporeal.
[The figure appears to walk up a set of stairs, before standing in mid-air for several seconds. It suddenly drops, going limp, hanging in mid-air for approximately ten seconds, and vanishing with a burst of digital noise.]
Morse: O-o-oh my god.
Darryl: Think it'll show up on the video?
Lee: Wait, hold on. People are talking. Moni, let me see your headset. I want to boost the gain on your mic.
[Morse removes her camera and hands it to Lee. Several seconds of shuffling are heard, before sounds recorded through the microphone appear to be much louder]
Unidentified Female: You're kidding. How many got through the roadblock?
Unidentified Male: Four, in a van. Some ghost-hunting show. Last thing we need. People showing up as scarecrows, farmers turning into vampires, researchers disappearing—
Unidentified Female: Wait, ghost hunting show? What was it called?

Unidentified Male: Following the… something. Landlines? You watch that stuff, Ruby, you should know.
"Ruby": Following the Leylines! Shit. They do fucking live Halloween specials every year. They might be broadcasting now!
Unidentified Male: Fuck me. Sigma-10 Command, this is Agent Blake Williams. We have cause to believe that the trespassers are broadcasting live. We need immediate scrubbing procedures. Call Cover-Ops.
Morse: Cover-Ops? What the fuck?
[Several lights down Main Street begin turning off.]
Darryl: This is big, holy shit. The entire town's a smokescreen. This is, like. Beyond Area-51. Wait, wh-why are the lights going out?
Lee: Shit, they're killing the power. We won't have an outgoing signal—
[The power turns off in the area around Lee, Darryl and Morse. Connection interrupted.]

Timecode: 10/23/2017 00:50
[Only Camera 1, Darryl's Camera, is active. Lee and Morse are not visible, and video shows heavy signs of corruption, and frames lag behind. Audio indicates that Darryl is running.]
Darryl: G-get the fuck away from me!
[A loud, bleating bellow echoes, distorting the audio on the camera and causing it to lag by several frames.]
Darryl: MONICA! QUINCY! FUCKING HELP!
[Darryl's camera shows him running past a tree. An axe flies into frame, embedding itself in the bark several inches before his face. He whimpers and stops, and the camera angle changes to a low shot. Loud sobbing is heard.]
[A new voice is heard, heavily distorted.]
Unknown Entity: For Sloth's sake. You tourists are so weepy.
Darryl: I-I… I don't wanna die! [Darryl descends into sobbing.]
[A figure with a goat's head steps into frame, and tilts its head, taking the axe from the tree.]
Unknown Entity: Oh shut up. I'm trying to save your life. [The entity grabs Darryl and begins dragging him along the ground. Darryl openly protests and sobs.]
[Camera feed disconnects.]

Timecode: 10/23/2017 01:07
[Only Camera 3, Lee's Camera, is active. Lee and Morse are both visible, while Darryl is not. The pair appear to be in a dilapidated house in a wooded area. They are standing in the entry way, and several patches of mold are visible on the ceiling, and holes in the walls, exposing wooden boards.]
Lee: Wait, what the fuck?
Morse: What?
Lee: I have a fucking signal! Almost an hour without any goddamn signal, and we step into a haunted goddamn house, suddenly, we got something!
Morse: Is someone living here?
Lee: Yeah. May be what got Mark.
Morse: And Chad?
Lee: We don't know that Chad's gone. We just… heard him scream. Maybe he fell into a ravine.
Morse: All right, I— oh my god.
Lee: What is it?
Morse: I… I feel… something's here, something big. Something… powerful. It wants us to get out.
Lee: Oh shit. Is it a ghost?
Morse: No, it's… something else. It's—
Unidentified Female Voice: It's me.
[Lee and Morse scream, turning to face a young female, approximately twenty-two. Subject is wearing faded blue jeans and a T-Shirt for "The Incubi", a local band in Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin. Subject's left eye is covered by a fringe of red hair. Some visual noise appears around the figure, but quickly clears.]
Unidentified Female: Whoah, whoah. [Subject holds up its hands in a placating manner] I'm not gonna hurtcha. You shouldn't even be here. What the hell are out-of-townies doing here at a time like this?
Lee: Uh, um. Uh. I… we ran the barricade… Mark did, our driver.
Unidentified Female: White guy? About thirty? [Subject shakes their head.] They're dead. The Black Autumn got to him.
Lee: What?
Morse: Black— Black Autumn? What the fuck?
Unidentified Female: Your other friend's safe. He pissed himself when he saw Jasper, though. But you all need to get out of town. [Subject looks at Lee's camera.] Is that recording?
Lee: Huh? Yeah, it is.
Morse: You don't… feel right. You're not real.
Unidentified Female: Wha— [The figure leans in and inspects Morse, pulling aside its hair to reveal that their left eye is missing, and a hollow socket is visible.]
Morse: What the FUCK!
Unidentified Female: You're a medium. How rare. [Subject snickers. Lee and Morse seem unamused.] Sorry. Need a bit of levity, in light of what's happened.
Morse: Where's Chad?
Unidentified Female: They're safe. That's all you need to know. Come on, follow me, and I'll get you— oh shit. Behind you!
[Lee's camera turns to face the opposite end of the entry way, where severe electromagnetic disturbance occurs. A figure resembling a scarecrow with a pumpkin for its head is visible through the distortion, and appears to be pointing at the camera.]
Unidentified Female: Run for it! Don't look back!
[Lee drops his camera and runs for the door, with Morse following. The footage shows the scarecrow walking after them, severe electromagnetic disturbance occurring. The scarecrow stops to inspect the camera dropped, falling on the floor and 'looking' into the lens.]
[Connection interrupted.]

Timecode: 10/23/2017, 01:27
[Feed from Camera 1. Video is inactive, only audio is present.]
Darryl: No! Please GOD! Let me go! [Darryl descends into sobbing]
Unidentified Entity: Silence.
Darryl: I don't wanna die!
Unidentified Male: Don't be such a drama queen! For the last time, I'm not going to hurt you, but if something else hears you, it will. So please. Shut. Up.
[Darryl is heard whimpering loudly.]
Unidentified Male: See that building over there? The one that says Plastics on it?
Darryl: Y-yes?
Unidentified Entity: I want you to run there as fast as you can. When you're in view of the front door, slow down and keep your hands up. If you're lucky, they won't shoot your head off.
Darryl: W-what the fuck are you?
Unidentified Entity: Just your friendly neighborhood half-goat slasher villain. Now, run. The town isn't safe. [A loud scream is heard in the distance.] Dammit. Jessie! Run for it, now.
[Darryl is heard running through plant matter, particularly dried leaves, which gives way to stone, most likely concrete. He is heard screaming for help, before gunshots ring out.]
[Signal interrupted.]

Timecode: 10/23/2017 01:27
[Feed from Camera 2, running through a wooded area. Morse is running after Unidentified Female, and is followed by Lee.]
Morse: What was that?!
Unidentified Female: No clue. They've been popping up around town. Forty people are dead because of them—
Lee: Forty people?! This should be national news!
Unidentified Female: There are people whose jobs are to stop news like that from getting out.
Lee: Who?!
Unidentified Female: Doesn't matter, you won't remember them! Jump!
[Morse and Lee leap over an obstruction; Morse's camera shows a series of roots attempting to reach into the air and grab them.]
Morse: What the fuck?!
Unidentified Female: Town's up there! You need to get onto Main Street-
[Subject suddenly stops as a line of scarecrows appears before the camera with a burst of digital noise.]
Unidentified Female: Oh shit. Run, run through them, I'll hold them off.
Morse: What the fuck are you? Something's wrong with you, I-I know you're not real, what are you?!
Unidentified Female: I'm Jessica Valentru. I'm part succubus, part banshee. You can call me Singing Jessie. Now, run!
[Morse and Lee flee towards the town. Audio picks up a sub-sonic disturbance, which grows in volume, until it is audible as a loud scream. Camera feed shows several individuals in FEMA uniforms, before the disturbance becomes audible. Major camera disturbance.]
[Signal interrupted.]

Timecode: 10/23/2017, 02:19
[Camera 1 is active, laying on a metal table next to Chad Darryl, who has his head in his hands. The room he is in is white and brightly-lit. A male enters the frame; the voice matches the individual identified as "Blake Williams" from time code 00:20.]
Williams: You're in a lot of trouble, Chad.
Darryl: I want my fuckin' lawyer.
Williams: We're far beyond lawyers— wait, is this thing on? [Williams picks up the camera and waves at it, before placing it down on the table.] You know, we intercepted your feed over an hour ago. The only place you're streaming to is a secure server, where your footage will be reviewed and deleted.
Darryl: Oh my god. Who the fuck are you? Are you t-t-the Founders?
Williams: Beg pardon?
Darryl: The Founders! Global Founders! Big-ass MIB organization that pull down videos of things like alien sightings and ghost encounters! I-I don't want to die. Please.
Williams: Calm down. We're not going to kill you. It ain't our style.
Darryl: Your style? A-a-a-a fuckin' guy with a goat head dragged me halfway across town and dropped me on your doorstep! I thought he was gonna kill me!
Williams: Really? The Goatman? Huh. [Williams pauses.] In any case, you have two choices right now.
Darryl: W-what?
Williams: Choice one: we inject you full of a drug that makes you forget the last twenty-four hours and you and your friends wake up in Superior, being arrested for breaking and entering while high on tainted drinks you got from a bar. Charges are dropped, and you're free to live your lives.
Darryl: My other choice?
Williams: You sign a piece of paper that says you can never talk about this, to anyone except your friends. If that happens, you will start to asphyxiate any time you mention the town of Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin, the Goatman, and the "Founders" as you call us.
Darryl: …does it hurt? The injection?
Williams: We give it to you under anesthesia.
Darryl: I'll take that.
Williams: Most people do. Though… your friend, Monica Morse?
Darryl: What about her?
Williams: We've been reviewing some footage from earlier episodes, as well as tonight. We've been looking for more psychics, so she may take a little longer to get out.
Darryl: What about Mark?
Williams: Let's get him prepped for amnestic administration.
Darryl: Wait, where's Mark? What happened to Mark?
[Williams turns off the camera. Connection interrupted.]

Timecode: 10/24/2017, 01:55
[The same scarecrow seen pursuing Morse and Lee is looking into Lee's camera, accompanied by heavy electromagnetic distortion. The pumpkin splits open, revealing the face of Markus Bradley inside, eyes removed. The face bashes its head against the camera. Blood flows down the lens.]
[Connection closed.]

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No, ☺☺☺☻○☺○☺☻☺○☻☺○☻☻☻○☻☺. You mustn't touch the

c▒ o▒▒m p▒u t▒e r▒

☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺▒th i▒ s▒ makes it difficult to see. Only very vague shapes are implied by extr○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻hows up in bright electric blue, so bright that specifics☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻o editing program, where the contrast could be made more stark. Any l▒ ivi▒ng? being s☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻aordinarily dark gray in the background. Of note is that these shapes disappear when loaded into any image or vide☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○Daddy?☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○We aa▒aaa▒▒▒▒aaaall▒w ays ddddddddddddddd☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○ beyond general shapes are difficult to determine. Of course, we have ways ▒ar▒ ou n▒d▒ this.☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻☻○☺☺☺○☻☺☻☺○☻☻☻○☻○☻ Daddy?

Addendum | Transcript of █☺██☺☻██
MTF Sigma-██ "Working Man" is deployed to deal with the SCP-☻○☺☺ phenomenon. The team is supplied with type-4 hazmat suits, flashlights, and ██▄▐▐. The team is the team is plit up into 5 groups - group A, B, C, D and E. Each has two teammates, designated with numbers (group A has A1 and A2). Each enters SCP-SCP-☻○☺☺ from a different point on the perimeter. The group is monitored vivivia ○☻○☻ surveillance mainframe. The

<BEGIN LOG>
(Foundation Command-☻○☺☺ is still attempting to connect to the surveillance mainframe of SCP-☻○☺☺. There is no visual reference for another two minutes, though Command is communicating with "Working Man".)
Command: anyone here?
A1: here.
A2: here.
B1: Yes,
B2: Yes, yes.
C1: here.
C2: Yes, yes
D1: I'm good
D2: here.
E1: here.
E2: Yes,
A1: We're here.
(There is a minute of silence as Command calibrates systems and continues to try and access the surveillance mainframe. The effort is met with minimal success, there are five bursts of sound, too short to be identified, and three still frames that are collected. Two are ambiguous views on what is thought to be a coyote, and another shows an unknown entity at the precipice of SCP-☻○☺☺. The picture is not seen by Command in real time, and was only discovered upon review of the footage. The figure is assumed to be Sc ot t, but can not be confirmed.)
Command: Move further in,
A1: further in (pause) Sorry, we are going further in.
("Working Man" pass the border of SCP-☻○☺☺, and begin their approach to SCP-☻○☺☺-1. Progress is steady, but visual is still manifesting. Another four bursts of noise come into the feed, along with two more still images. One shows team B in an unknown location, and another shows a view of what is thought to be a large tree.)
C2: Ah, listen to the sounds of nature.
C1: What's that sound?
C2: That's an owl. Look, there it is.
(Command successfully accesses the surveillance mainframe, and is treated to a visual on team D. The team seems to be traversing flat terrain, as they continue in a straight line with minimal deviation. The view soon transitions to team B, who seem to be in more rough terrain, with foot placements suggesting large boulders or similar protrusions from the ground. In another three seconds, Command also gets audio from the surveillance mainframe. Due to distortion and volume of audio, Command shortly mutes it, though it is recorded in the background for review post exploration.)
B1: Ouch!
B2: What?
B1: A wasp!
E1: I hate wasps.
(E1 has never before, nor will ever again, express a distaste for wasps. The visual at this time depicted a dark slate of background. Vague motions suggest that either the view is moving or something within the view is moving. Soon, motion stops, and team A comes into frame, moving in a way that suggests high bushes.)
A1: I had the weirdest dream last night.
A2: I love camping, sleeping in the open air with the stars above me.
Command: Aah, I feel quite sleepy.
A1: Is everything alright?
A2: The important thing is that you are okay.
A1: Guys?
(A1 pauses and checks his surroundings, looking up and shielding their eyes from the sun. Vernon is confused. A small, childish figure appears behind him for two frames, before the visual changes to a different view showing team D climbing out of a small ditch. Both D1 and D2 freeze in place for three seconds, before continuing on. Visual cuts out two seconds after this event.)
Command: You have to wait
A1: Why?
Command: Probably because
(There is a pause of twelve seconds, where audio is lost as well. Three bursts of distorted audio can be heard, and two frames of visual are picked up. One is an image of A1 and A2 lying face down. Vernon is missing his right arm and right leg. A2 is bent at an odd angle. The second image is of SCP-☻○☺☺-1.)
Command: We just have to wait
A2: Follow
(Visual and audio come back, opening on a view of team C en route with apparent flat terrain.)
Command: Move further in,
(A small entity glides towards C2 and is about to make contact before visual changes to a view of an unidentified dark background. Some movement is visible.)
C2: Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa aaa a aaaaaa a aaa aaaa
A1: What's going on?
C1: I know. I know where he is.
A1: Where who is?
Command: Don't worry A1
C1: I won't
(Vernon is getting nosy. The visual shifts to a bird's eye view of SCP-☻○☺☺. All 7 members of "Working Man" appear as bright blue dots, slowly moving towards SCP-☻○☺☺-1. Another blue dot appears from the edge of the visual, moving at speeds excess of ▐▐▐▐▐█. Visual and audio cuts out for four seconds.)
E2: ▀████▄█▐██████▐▐▐▐█▄██▐▐▐▐▐█████▄▄▄▄█▌▌█▀▀▀▀██▌▌▌▌▌█▄▄▄█▀
A1: E2? E2 are you alright?
E1: He'll be fine, A1.
A1: What was that garbled noise he was making?
E1: He'll be fine.
(Vernon appears to be getting very distressed. Command begins to cue up calming music to play to A1, when they face a system failure and lose communication with "Working Man". However, they can still hear the task force and continue to record. Technicians work on regaining communication with "Working Man".)
A1: You are all acting very strange.
Command: (Unaware that communication has been lost) help help help help helph elph elph elph elphel phel phel phel phel
A1: (Unaware that communication has been lost) What the fuck is that?
E1: He'll be fine.
(Command deems Ver non's attitude a detriment to the team, and mutes him to improve morale. Visual changes to a view on E1 standing over the remains of E2. Sc ot t can be seen in the background.)
Vernon: Holy fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck A2. A2 get up. C'mon, c'mon man no, shit shit shit. Isaiah, your name is Isaiah, wake up god damn it. Fuck. Fuck it got to him. Shit. Shit shit shit.
Vernon: Hello? Command?
Vernon: (Breathing heavily.) Team E? Team C? D, B, anyone?
Vernon: Ah, shit. Aahh shit.
Vernon: Okay.

Okay.

I'm going in.
Vernon: Fuck you.

Vernon: Fuck. You.

You could almost see it now.

Vernon: …

You could see the building. There's vines all around it, cracks all up the walls. The fence. The fence is busted in, something crashed through it from the outside.

Vernon: Oh fuuuck you.

He climbed over rubble, feeling eyes on him. Small, beady eyes, from outside of his senses. He didn't see them, hear them, taste them, smell them, or feel them, he just knew of them. Like a pinprick in his throat.

Vernon: Hhhh, hhhh.

The place was almost not recognizable. Vernon knew it, he just knew it. He couldn't have told the Foundation, all his credentials could have been gone in a second. That would have been termination. Maybe amnesticization if they were feeling merciful. That was the predicament. Death here or death to them. He thought he might have been able to make it. Kept holding a mask up to his fear. That maybe this place remembered him.

(S cott watched carefully.)

It was grown over with moss, but Vernon knew what the sign said.

(Scott did remember him.)

His old work.

Vernon: █████ Industrial.

It was either going in or going back. He couldn't decide which was more terrifying. Sweat drenched his suit. He knew what he did here. But he left before he could see the results. A morbid curiosity crept over him, a curiosity his higher self knew he didn't want quenched. A curiosity that told him that going back would take longer than going in, he might as well if he's already here. Besides. Who would want to keep an audience waiting? He clawed past the fence, and stumbled upon his first body.
"Liberty."
He knew everyone here by name. This was going to be difficult. Her eyes were missing, and she was cut across her midsection. Looks like she was crushed by rubble as well. The anomaly has existed for a month by now, but she looks completely untouched. Preserved, even. She might have died two minutes before, and there'd be no difference. Vernon looked around. The place had struck him as oddly still already. He soon climbed to the front doors. They used to be automatic, but they were sliding no longer. Through their smoke stained screens, he could see the faint leaking of light. The place still has power. Somehow. He felt warm, a heat was leaking out of the building. He was struck by the thought of how the place must smell, but he kept his hazmat helmet on. Something wished he could still smell how sterile the place must have been.
"Deep breaths."
He pushed open the door, and tried not to look at their faces. They were mangled enough so that he might not recognize them if he just didn't look, and he didn't want to see anybody he knew well. He still had to wince, but not at the gore around him. A screen was on, and it said "Welcome". He could feel its presence growing.
He climbed the stairs. He didn't know where he was going before, or what he was trying to find, but he did now. The server room. If there was a reason for the anomaly, if this world had any sense of reason and cohesion, this whole thing would start there. He made certain not to look at Rob's body. Only black guy who worked there, immediately recognizable. Actually, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he spied someone else with dark skin. One of them must have been charred. Vernon gagged.
This was it. The fluids, the, eugh. They're dragging out the door. The dread was setting in like it hadn't before. It was like tunnel vision. Huge, oily wires crept out of the hole in the wall. It was ground level? I could have sworn I climbed. It's cold out, I wish I brought a jacket. These shorts weren't helping either.
"It's loose," said Tamara.
"I know," I was sweating.
"It's okay," she consoled. "Go greet it."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive." Her eyes were beautiful tonight. "He loves you." I wasn't so sure. "He wants you."
"Deep breaths," I said to myself. Okay. Time to venture out. I opened the door, he wants me. "Hello?" I want to see him. "Scott?" Come to me. Come to me please. I want you. Need you. The wires slumped out into the woods. The cables, dirt threw all around, wormed into the underbrush. I slipped a couple times, stumbling out into the woods. I was calling now.
"Scooott? Scooooooott?" I want to see him. "C'mere, Scott!" I wanna be there. "Come to papa!" To see his first steps. "Come here!" I want to hear his first words. "I want to be with you." I want to hear him say "Dad". I want to feel his little baby toes. I want to cradle him. I can feel how scared he is. His fear washes over me like a wave.
"There you are!" My baby boy. "There you are! Shh sh shhhh, daddy's here now. It's okay, shh shh shhh. Come here. Stop crying, I'll help you. You're mine now, don't worry, shhh shh shhh." Where should we go? "Shh shh shhhh." Out there. Out into the world. "I love you." Out there. "I'll do anything for you."
And away we went.
hmmmm
And away we
hmmm
And away w
w
w
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Incident-URA-1902| Abridged Incident Report
The unregistered anomaly has gone defunct as of █/██/████, 4 days after its original discovery. All members of MTF Sigma-██ "Working Man" were found deceased within the original boundaries of the anomaly, except for A1, Agent Vernon LaFerrier. Cause of death for all personnel was severing of the spinal cord caused by cervical fractures; additionally, all female personnel were discovered to have near-identical pelvic fractures. All male personnel suffered from near-identical lower spine fractures consistent with stress resultant from hard physical labor. The field command team was found covered in amniotic fluid. Cause of death was starvation. All field records of the anomaly and the excursion were corrupted beyond recovery.
The center of the anomaly was a building belonging to GoI-███, and multiple Persons of Interest associated with the organization were found deceased on-site. Multiple other bodies were found and are under examination. None have been identified as of the time of writing. All non-Foundation corpses recovered have decomposed at a slower rate than human remains under similar circumstances typically would.
Large cables and wires were found leading out of a damaged part of the building. They led to the body of PoI-███-17, and entered her body through the vaginal cavity. Autopsy suggests that PoI-███-17 was pregnant at the time of death. There was a large laceration across her abdomen. A knife contaminated with PoI-███-17's blood was found next to the body; MTF Signma-██ A1's protective suit was covering her body on initial recovery. The site of the anomaly is currently under investigation.

« We Didn't Do This For Nothing | The Missing Link | A Deep, Dark Disassociation »


The woman is alone. She sits on the floor, covered in charcoal. The smell of burnt wood and decay behind her. She lifts a glass to her lips and drinks, the burn of alcohol hot on her throat. She waits.

The woman is alone. She walks through a crowd. Searches for the exit. Trips, falls. Pain, white-hot, lancing through her wrist. She screams.
The sound of rapid footsteps. A jacket tightly wrapped around her arm. A palm, gently against her back. A face, delicate and creased with worry, staring down at her. The pain seems to fade slightly, the room seems to spin.

The woman is alone. The desk is covered in sketches, smudged and torn by erasure and work. Coffee mugs left haphazardly around the room. She draws.

The women sit together. Together, they laugh. A strawberry is lifted, placed lightly onto lips. A bite. A kiss. They eat.

The woman sweats. Her muscles scream, crying out for rest. The groan of bolts being turned, the thunder of metal being hammered. Steam pouring, burning her arms and face. She grits her teeth. The work must be done. She works.

The women lay in bed. A night of passion, of love, of flesh, plays on their minds. Sounds of laughing, moaning, kissing. They sleep.

The woman cries. Feelings of failure, of guilt. Tissues, soaked with tears, balled and tossed across the room. Whiskey bottles shattered on the floor. She weeps.

The family sits at dinner. The sounds of eating, drinking, and silence. Not a word is spoken.
The father speaks. Asks her why. The mother says nothing. She doesn't need to.
The woman responds. Tells him off. A plate shatters. The mother is standing. Her face is tight, her eyes watering. She points one finger at the door.
The women leave.

The woman screams. The machine wheezes, coughs smoke. The smell of burning flesh, of burning dreams. The body, too far away. She reaches. She fails.
She burns.

She lies in a hospital bed. She enters the room. The heart monitor calls to her excitedly.
She takes her hand. The monitor slows. A nurse calls out. She turns. Speaks for a moment. Turns back.
The monitor makes no sound.

The woman is alone. She sits on the floor, covered in charcoal. The smell of burnt wood and decay behind her. She lifts a glass to her lips and drinks, the burn of alcohol hot on her throat. She waits.

She cries.

She cries.

Item #: AO-881982
Item Description: A 2-story machine built to reanimate the deceased.
Date of Recovery: ██-04-196█
Location of Recovery: █████, Ohio
Current Status: Destroyed in fire. Creator killed in fire.
Research Value: None