Kakroom Inactive Projects

UIU starter thing I think:

Brooks was having a nightmare. He knew this, but it didn't seem to register with his insistent, ravished subconscious, wildly lashing out to protect him from ghouls and demons of every stripe. As the summer thunder boomed outside, where he could see the riots.

His visor blocked everything - sight, sound, even smell. All he could taste was the dull, recycled air being fed him by the tank on his back. The screaming would've deafened him, but as it stood he was having a hard enough time trying to concentrate fighting off a dilapidated, shambling service-bot, a wad of teenagers with black hoodies and eyes of fire, and some woman, covered head to toe in needle marks. He could hear Joe and Mary through the comms, coordinating the assault as he brought the baton down on her skull. She collapsed, screaming, as he bashed in a youth's nose and swept him off his feet, and grappled with the decaying android.

He tore through his sheets and drooled onto the comforter, wailing in the silence, as he brought the baton to bear again, and again, and again. The poor thing went down at once, but he couldn't stop himself. He drowned out the fight by tearing away at its plastic skin, and then its skull, and then its flickering, half-functional brain. Again, and again, and again, and again, and then he dropped the baton and crushed it beneath his boot.

He screamed, and woke up. It was morning. An orange sun was rising on Manhatten through the wide, frosty window.

First he made himself breakfast, after pouring some for McClellan, who happily lapped it up after he tweaked her whiskers and brushed her tail. Then he changed clothes, swapping his plain blue pajamapants for his livery, and walked down the 42 flights of apartment to the ground floor. Leaving the lobby, NYC still struck him as impossibly silent. He'd been urbanized for however many years and the constant roar of engines and indignant blares of taxicabs was drilled into his skull; the quiet was so biting as to be accusatory. In a way, perhaps it was.

He walked three blocks without a soul in sight. Passing a long-abandoned barricade, scorched blood and gray matter clung to the sides, where abandoned weapons and canisters of Rust lay where they fell. Every so often he caught a shadow peeking out towards him from one of the storefronts. All of them quickly moved away upon his noticing - curfew was still in effect, and he was still an Officer of the law. Ostensibly.

Eventually, he reached Penn,

The Passion of the DJ:

"Good evening, everyone. My name is Lieutenant Daniel Morris. I'm with the 21st airborne division deployed to Rapid, and Command's taken me up on my idea for a little radio show. I'll be getting you some of the last century's greatest hits, right up until the time things- got the way they are. Shout out to Private Wyatt for his marriage on Sunday. Good job, bud. Here's a little tune they liked to call "Y.M.C.A" - we'll be back after this."

"That was "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" - Judy Garland's classic. Wonderful film. Anywho, this is the hour where we have a real talk and just - do whatever it is catches the fancy of you fellas. I know all of you have lost - not just people but, maybe yourselves, your women, our children. Oh - we've got a caller! What's your name, soldier?

"J, p.h.d."

J! What'll it be today? How's the family?

"Miriam's dead. They took Katie last night. Officer corps. I thought you should know."

…operator, can we- JESUS! J! Doc, are you there? Doc! DOC!

"…kill ratios for quadrant 8 are… stabilizing. Tonight we honor Response squad 8:

Vampire city:

The camp they made sat harsh against the desert landscape. Crimson-gold standards flapped wildly in the wind, and the sentries burned campfires - smoking up the autumn sky and stars.

Claudius often marveled at the structure of his unit, but it was only in the best of times when he could truly appreciate its structural perfection. In the blinding sun of the Proconsularis, each troop dug for trenches, aligned the ballista, and kept a watchful eye on their timeless enemy. On the other side of camp, more Romans gathered - upon that thought, his headache returned, and he stepped back into his chambers on the cliffside.

The tent was bare; his writing desk and bed filled half the room while the other found itself possessed of various tidbits and trinkets. In the center was a large, wooden table, circled in chairs, and bereft in ornament.stood a huged, furred man; clad in a full array of skins from all across the empire, his massive stature was only second to his impressive, flowing mane of pitch-black hair.

'Imperator. A pleasure.'

'Only mine, legate.' His voice boomed with an ethereal authority. Despite himself, several chills shot up his spine. He'd never been one for sorcerors.

'We have business to discuss. Sit.'

This weird thing:

Somewhere in Nevada

The recruit felt a deep cold creep through his body. The waiting room had slowly been bleeding heat for the past half hour. It was the middle of August; his digs weren't exactly fitted for the occasion, and he crossed his legs a little tighter.

They'd never kept him waiting this long - but it'd been a long time since he'd needed to wait for them at all. He glanced at the

Nazi Hunter:

The look on his face rendered Friedrich's smile a wide, toothy grin. 'You do remember!' He chuckled to himself. 'Oh, that's fun.'

'Didn't… anything to…do with'

'Wiiith… the sheltering of National Socialist party members, the weapon shipments across the South Saharan bench-Ways, the highly illegal murder of several high-ranking members of the Nazi Party, including the ex-chancellor Adolf… Hitler…?'

Otto's mouth was laced shut. Friedrich began to circle the table - the single, solitary hanging incandescent rendered his ever-widening smile a grimace.

'You're a hero to many people, Mr. Skorzeny - and a villain to many, many more.'

Otto worked at his molar - if he could only dislodge the charge… needed to keep him talking.

He rasped, 'So you want to work a deal - my life for the Leader's. Is that it?'

Friedrich sat back down. 'No, nothing of the sort.

Friedrich's suspender-clad, lumbering form rumbled in his chair. 'You see, General, the people I represent don't want anything to do with you, or your men. The Leader, likewise, is of less concern. What we like - what we need - are magnets. Feed - people who can bring the flock out to pasture. We'd like you to keep doing exactly what you are doing. Except-'

He snapped his fingers, and two figures, clad in black moved out from the shadows. One attempted to restrain his jaw; h

Nazi dad:

Leaves blew through the street as a car pulled up to the house. His son stepped out, clothed in a fine suit and sporting the face of a different man. He was so proud. He returned the vodka to its compartment underneath the television, and hunted hurriedly for his pills. He picked through them at the garbage bin, and cursed himself for forgetting the charade. As he finished mixing himself a health shake, the doorbell rang. He slid

Fight club:

Junior Researcher Mortison smiled as he looked down at the corpse grinning with a mouth of shattered teeth. He delivered another blow to the head, and another, and another - his red, sweltering fist removing flesh with every swipe. Junior Researcher Chrystosom took it like the champ he was, his jaw tearing itself apart with the blows of his opponent. With a crunch he was blown back out of the ring, his nose a wet, bleeding mess. Junior Researcher Mortison stomped his face into the plastic tile where he laid, hammering away the man's cranium into his gray matter. He screamed with delight, ripping off the labcoat with which he had hastily sped over to the amphitheater that day.

Watching the gladiators rip one another limb from limb was a series of ascended platforms filled to bursting with somber spectators eagerly awaiting their own round in the circle. Soldiers, scientists and interns of every stripe gazed at the carnage, whispering with every impact, relishing the suffering of the ring's constituents - the possibility that they might make it their own.

Junior Researcher Mortison delivered the coup de grace; it blew the last remaining bits of calcified material out of Junior Researcher Chrystosom's bruised, putrefied oral interface, and his landed on the tile with a dull thud. A pair of peons, dressed in black, rushed down from their seats with a stretcher. Junior Researcher Mortison followed them as they dragged the corpse into the operating theater. He ran up, tears of ectsasy bleeding down his face, and as he looked into eyes if the contender, he grasped his hand in a gesture of supreme respect of gratitude.

Junior Researcher Chrystosom's broken mouth cracked into a shredded smile, and Junior Researcher Mortison felt a weak pulse of force return the affection.

The procedure took three hours.

The room was cramped, hot, and crowded; fight night was Site-37's biggest time of the month, and


"Look, I wanna state - I wanna state, for the record, that, the events, the events that occurred, during[the Lebanese Insurgency]could not have been orchestrated. Could not have. My men - the men under my command, we were ordered to gather only the women and the children. Directly from corporate - directly, I can recall them, the orders very clearly. 'Bring out - the vulnerable elements.' The vulnerable elements. And, it was what we - the agreement, directly stated, we complied with all orders distributed, from corporate, absolutely no exceptions. None. So those orders came, and I even asked [Squad Leader Richard Luis, SA operational commander during Combat Action E] ,I asked him I asked him 'what the hell,' you know, 'what is this, what the hell do they mean' And what he said- I remember what he said. He told me 'get John on the phone, ask him for… he told me to ask John for… I'm sorry. He told me to ask John for… cadaver receptacles, that was… that was what he said. And I asked him… I asked Rich how many, and he told me… to do a headcount, a headcount in the village. And then I asked him, I asked Rich who I need to count and he told me - well, vulnerable elements. And… I am deeply ashamed… to say I did. I did."

-Excerpt from Jamal Olymphant, SA International contractor voluntarily entered into Foundation custody following several operations involving the business entity 'Marshall, Carter and Dark ltd.'

Samael's back remained turned at the revelation just presented to the group. As he continued pouring his coffee, his mind struggled to process the blur of phonetic vibrations configuring neurons with which to flood his central nervous system. He turned back to the colorful group situated before him; a ramshackle collection of drug lords, merc hoarders, and mafiosi possessed by a bevy of different tonal variations and topical particularities. Some appeared stoic, while others appeared sweatful and worrisome, and the worst among them anticipated the coming drama.

He walked back to his seat calmly, loafers quietly clacking on the hardwood floor. Light shone in from the forest outside. The island would be particularly beautiful today. They were already fucked up the ass.

"Mr. Renfield." Jacopo, a huge man crowding the right side of his desk, repeated. "Do you understand where we're goin' with this?"

Samael thought for a moment. Then he pulled out a cigar - a nice cheap one - from the bowels of his desk, and puffed thoughtfully. "Where is it?"

Jacopo huffed. Cleo, a smaller hermaphrodite clad in a security vest, dared to answer. "It's in the hands of someone we own. Director Stanley - one of the European sites, I think. Closest to the raid

Type blue abuse and commune thing:

I ran through the fields. I ran through fields, and through brush and over the river, running so far and so fast I didn't think I could ever find my way back.

God, it hurt. I'd never get to see the fruit of my father's fine labor - we eschewed mirrors - but I could certainly feel it. Stripes, white hot, laid across my spine, like strips of bacon. As I scrambled over rocks and clambered my way through the forest, my green service jumpsuit - already suffered the torment - became tattered and ragged, and to my chagrin entangled in some branch, forcing me to scuttle one of the sleeves. Nonetheless I ran. When I got tired, I panted, and when I collapsed I got up and limped. Till death I was determined to put as much distance between my body and the guards as was geographically possible. I might've run all the way to Austria, if it hadn't been for the corner.

Noon rose. I'd worked through the night and fired in the dark; though I had not traveled far, I knew the commune, and the outer wild was a mystery to me. So it was that, stumbling out of the trees, I happened upon a wide ovular grove, full of grass and open sky. In the center lay a pair of rocks that leaned on one another, and entranced by this sight (and in the throes of exhaustion) I endeavored to investigate the cell further.

Vampire sub thing:

The story is set on a Soviet military sub operating somewhere in the Arctic, for reasons unknown to the reader. They encounter a derelict Foundation destroyer that, when they deploy aboard, is found to be devoid of all life. There are few signs of battle; a room full of body-bags, drained of blood, and a single survivor is found in the boiler, dying from blood-loss. After a brief interrogation, they attempt to return him to the ship, but he expires en route from exsanguination.

Soon after they scuttle the destroyer, things begin going wrong. Corpses are found; the chief engineer, Sergei, and then the Captain, Dmitri. Visuals shift back and forth between Dmitri and Ivan, one of the Spetsnaz who found the Survivor. Lieutenant Pavlov, the closest thing to a commander among the soldiers, orders a sweep of the ship. Ivan begins to clash with the Lieutenant when this yields no fruit and they continue to incur casualties. Doctor Sokolov escapes a feeding frenzy in the medical bay, where the creature kills three other men. Pavlov is killed and Ivan is left in command.

The remaining soldiers, engineers, and crewmen meet at the helm. They agree that the best course of action is to lure the creature, so in a desperate ploy they return to the medbay and leave Pavlov's dog, Lucy, in a cage. After administering a very mild anesthetic, they secure the armory and monitor the medbay, waiting for the creature to get hungry.

It takes the bait and they trap it in the complex. Ivan dispenses weapons and equipment to the last of the Spetsnaz and orders Sokolov, should they not return within three hours, to scuttle the ship and head for the lifeboats. Sokolov refuses, knowing they will not last a day in the cold, but agrees to sink the sub.

The Spetsnaz enter the chamber and it is relocked behind them. The creature kills the two other Spetsnaz and escapes the medbay, massacring everybody else on board in a hunger-fueled rage.

Ivan, the sole survivor, wounded, struggles to the lifeboat. He's picked up by a pair of Foundation destroyers who responded to the derelict going silent. The sub, unscuttled, lurks silently in the distance, and the story ends where it began.

NTF Summary:

NTF is divided into 9 distinct units of 3 troops which serve in tandem as the Foundation's last line of defense.

1. Asgard - Task Force commander, second-and-third in command.

2. V-Team - Group adjuncts. Manage interservice stuff and receive from O5 command.

3. Mid - NTF's most basic operators. No specialization; they're selected from the Foundation's finest crops of infantrymen for their courage under fire and general skill. Candidates from J, N and M teams cycle in and out of Mid annually to maintain activity.

4. A-Team - Reconnaissance. Train with Jirai consultants, focus is on relaying intel and coordinating with V-team.

5. S-Team - Guerilla unit specializing in stealth tactics.

6. J-Team - Power unit which uses exo-suits, designed for max damage against soft-to-medium sized targets.

7. N-Team - Group specializing in cryonic munitions and acts as the group's personal medical squadron.

8. M-Team - Incendiary unit.

9. H-Team - Specializes in post-mortem liquidation of entities and entities incapable of expiration. The Hell squad is typically composed of members of the Fox that have anomalously survived previous occupations.

Other pmc thing:

6/2/32 - Foundation Secure Line 8a9BCE - Level 3 Classified

From: Lynx
To: Fox

Mr. Lins,

My understanding of our arrangement was simply this: you provide us with service, we provide you with Euro. Since the merger you have received nothing but cooperation from High Command and a relatively clear business premise. Your complaint will be forwarded to the Trust's Ethics and Transparency department for review.

Denver Base

From: Fox
To: Lynx

Denver Base,

Go fuck yourself.



Conner hit 'send' and then gave the computer tower nice, hydraulic kick. SA inc. was the planet's most bloated security company since Pinkerton; they could afford one more.

He left the terminal in a huff and swung his bag over his shoulder, ignoring the irritated grimaces he received from some of the vets also situated in the library. As he exited the vast, glowing spectacle, into a relatively pedestrian parking lot, he chewed and chewed on his cheek until it bled, and then chewed some more.

Metahuman Census:

Foreword: Agents are to utilize this database at their leisure, but are cautioned that it is only for the purpose of logging paranormal individuals extant or deceased that fail to meet the requirements necessary for SCP status. Underreporting statistics and manipulating facts to avoid extra paperwork will be grounds for termination of contract and/or memory.

-Director Higgins


Full Known Name/Alias (may be unknown):
Official Designation (PoI-XXXX):
Brief Description (of the subject and its activities prior to recovery/liquidation):
Action Taken (to recover/liquidate the subject and its influence):
Current Location:

Full Name: Anthony Tyler Yates
Brief Description: Maryland based Catholic priest working as a Grade-C thaumaturgist in █████████, providing medicinal and financial aid to families living below the poverty line alongside a budding discipleship.
Action Taken: Back-channels through the Horizon Initiative contacted the Vatican's 'Exquisite Influence Division,' a smaller group of Papal operatives who agreed to carry out a full meme-sweep free of charge. Media analysis in the months following the incident and GoI-229's ('Knights of Saint Anthony Reformed') evaporation have led high command to conclude that the matter is fully resolved.
Current Location: Communications from the Vatican subsequently confirmed that the subject has been debriefed and relocated to a remote Polish monastery, where they are held under light guard.

Full Known Name/Alias: Sergei Ilyanovich Solynov
Brief Description: Ukrainian nationalist who conducted terrorist attacks on Russian soil starting in 2013. Began suffering a severe case of paranoid schizophrenia as early as January of the next year. This quickly abated and reconfigured into a capacity for astral projection, which the subject proceeded to utilize in escalating attacks for weeks after.
Location prior to recovery: Assorted; several safehouses across the Siberian Sub-Arctic wide-class containment platform
Action Taken: While mopping up residual damage from the offensives mentioned previously proved relatively mundane, Mr. Solynov managed to elude capture for several years following the destruction of his team. He was finally discovered hiding out in a commune located on the perimeter of Northern Siberia, where his physical body was liquidated and his incorporeal form contained.
Current Location: Site-22, thermal containment wing.

Full Known Name/Alias: 'Moon Screen'
Brief Description: Unidentified Type 1 lycanthrope formerly subsisting off of indigenous wildlife and civilian tourists for several years prior to Foundation intervention. Agent Kappa-Nine, a 3-year veteran of the Foundation's 'Manifold Group,' a general-purpose investigative unit specializing in Therianthropy, ascertained Moon Screen's former human persona by way of the local lupine population.
Location prior to recovery: Fayette, Michigan, U.S.A
Action Taken: Special team RUBIK deployed with orders to escort subject into Foundation custody. RUBIK suffered several casualties in a nine-month sleeper operation in their attempt to corner the subject, resulting in a three-fifths majority ruling by the Tasks and Services committee to begin drafting termination protocols. Response was deployed three days following the decision, and liquidated the subject via sustained fire from Team 2's mounted GAU-19 minigun.
Current Location: Cadaver remanded to Site-43 medical unit for post-mortem analysis and recycling.

NTF Ijamea thing:

The warehouse was dark and thick with smoke. Their new friends' 'distraction' tearing up half of a nearby derelict, Mr. Blanche looked on as Captain Shizumi measured up his new cannon-fodder.

'Our most elite unit.' He felt it necessary to reiterate; the severe, cross-armed man before him remained something of an unknown variable. 'General-purpose, as you requested, and free of charge. At your disposal.'

Shizumi refused to turn. His eyes burned like coals, and somewhere in the back of Blanche's subconscious, his dead grandfather - a decorated veteran of the Pacific campaign - rolled in his coffin.

Finally, the Captain gave him the slightest frill of attention. His head cocked and his eyebrow raised in a morbidly comedic fashion. 'Your generals spoke of a mighty force, decisive in our war and many others. Yet you have presented to me three goons - I ask, what is the nature of this insult?'

Blanche smiled. 'It is no insult, Captain. These men - excuse me, Missus Shevchenko-' he nodded towards the dour warrior propped up in the center of their lineup, '-have the blood of gods on their hands.'

'And yet you doubted their prowess enough to send them here. To train, with my men.'

Blanche snorted. 'You asked for a hammer, not a scalpel. We desire the latter, and in turn you shall give us one.'

Shizumi's ancient visage stretched into something resembling a grin. 'Should your hammer perform.'

'Need you a dead god, Captain?'

He chuckled at the thought. 'Perhaps the cockroaches think themselves as such - but no. We move in shadow, Mr. Blanche - New Nakano, this place where we will take your men, was of the Shinobi. The Americans did not leave us with very much - and they will not do it again. But enough-' He swiped his hand through the air. 'The bargain is done. You will leave now.'

Blanche blanched. 'It was understood that I'd receive a chance to debrief them, prior ro my departure.'

'You will leave now.' Shizumi repeated, and clanking in the rafters caused him to look up. Figures moved in the firelight, their obscure forms gesturing menacingly with a pair of slug-guns. Blanche clenched and unclenched his teeth, and the Response commander whispered in his ear, 'Let 'em go. We don't need a bloodbath.'


HostNet Server 2017
SurveyMode 316 - registered rtfc terminal active
………………….enter command
run S049A-BOT.exe
………………….matrix active. command?
init autoscan.exe
………………….scan complete. display results y/n
………………….results complete.
………………….facility status: systems critical. 2/3 local command liquidated. 4/5 local personnel liquidated. complete local civilians liquidated.
………………….containment status: n/l
………………….recommended action: deploy reinforcements. neutralize all surviving assets. reacquire surviving personnel.
init scramble-order
………………….SO distributed. would you like to attach a message? y/n
………………….confirmed. sending…

"Site-049," Dietrich began, directing the group's attention to the board with his laser-pointer. "The Foundation's primary parahuman research base in the midwest. And there's been a breakout." The remote in his hand clicked. Men winced; the shocks went deep, deeper than most wounds. The facility's layout sprung onto the screen.

"1800, the system goes down." Click. Wince. Crackly footage of grumpy suits burning documents, leaving in choppers, getting mauled. "Cybersec's still working on the loophole. But Command needs this mopped up now, clean and physical - the Hammer won't do. That leaves us."

Another click. Necks strained; headaches returned, and were ignored. Deeper than most wounds.

Dietrich swung the pointer around the four scenes - official-looking men with guns and vests holding back a crowd, snipers trained on the facility's exterior wall, body bags, and a biohazard tent with faceless, armored doctors. "Response was on the scene quick; they've set up a cordon around the dangerzone. Perimeter defenses kept tight through the mess, so nothing's getting out, not for the moment." Clince. Dozens of headshots. His audience emanated a sense of quiet approval at the motley staffers displayed before them.

"This was the crew," Dietrich intoned. "Central thinks we're looking at two-thirds, three-fourths casualties. Men, women, their children - the domicile wing's a priority here. Whoever's still alive is holed up and scared, and they won't last long. These…"

Clince - the last slide. Thermal scans of the interior; lumbering forms mulling about.

"…were the inmates. The whole nine yards - yellows, greens, even a violet."

Confused expressions. Mr. Kilpatrick, a thick man in the front row, spoke up: "I'm sorry, sir - what?"

"Superman. Combination-creep - regeneration, TK, strong as an ox. He should be on level 4, so we'll clean house, and converge on him."

He shut the board off, and faced his men. He saw what he always saw - grit, measured fear, calm.

Dietrich said, "Regional command wants this off the table, no strings attached. Extract the civvies, sweep the asset. So you've got free rein - esoterics, incendiaries, whatever. Get your kit and be in bay 3 by 1900. Dismissed."

[closed circuit captioning provided by the committee for employee satisfaction]
Dr. York: Welcome back to the program. We'd like to apologize for the running station blackouts we'll be incurring throughout the day, as HemiWest operational authority gets the situation under control. While we're active, we'll be coming to you live with a very special program courtesy of Monitor Newark's own 3rd Records Team. Years of bureaucratic stonewalling and red-tape were finally shredded in the 2014 landmark Ethics Committee decision 'Epsilon-11 Transparency Review 13-A,' and for the first time in the unit's long and illustrious history, a press attache has been cleared to attend the group's most recent military operation. We go to the ground with Ms. Anisha Shapiro, with more.

Ms. Shapiro: Thank you, doctor. I'm standing here on armory sublevel A of Armed Area-33's southwestern quadrant, where, as you can see behind me, the Foundation's mythical 'light brigade' is gearing up in preparation for one of the worst containment breaches of the last fifteen years. According to our sources, HemiWest's Mobile Task Force liaison has this classified as a 'quarter zero' incident - a bold move that may have larger implications for the historically lenient sector. For viewers out there unfamiliar with the notorious term, this extreme directive means that the liaison has cleared any and all means necessary to resolve the situation. Its use today marks the order's 52nd deployment in the Foundation's history, and its first within the last decade.

Ms. Shapiro: Please state your name.
Mr. Sullivan: Dietrich Sullivan. Captain, .
Ms. Shapiro: And can you tell me about the operation you'll be taking us through today?
Mr. Sullivan: Yes, Ma'am. Squads Alpha through Kappa will be Ground Team, inserted at various points around the facility to ensure maximum efficiency during the commencement of the assault. Lambda through Zeta will enter 49 vertically, a combination of drop-pods to destabilize enemy consistency and rappel groups to instigate a more thorough support movement.
Ms. Shapiro: You sure seem to have a handle on it. How long have you been in the service?
Mr. Sullivan: 22 years, 11 months, ballpark 2-3 weeks.
Ms. Shapiro: Keeping count?
Mr. Sullivan: Every day.
Ms. Shapiro: I have to say, we've run with a couple of tough Taskers, but - nothing like the people you've got running this place. And so many of them. How do you maintain order?
Mr. Sullivan: […] You know, it- it's actually quite easier than you would think. Guys get together and after a few ops, it becomes a regular thing, a routine. A [chuckles] a niceness routine. They're really good kids.
Ms. Shapiro: And you enforce the routine?
Mr. Sullivan: Oh, yes, Ma'am. That's half of it. But, more of it is getting them actually to go along in the first place. They've got some really good boys up in recruiting - really good.
Ms. Shapiro: I'm happy to hear it.
Mr. Sullivan: Yeah. You don't got anything to worry about tonight, Ma'am - we'll take good care of you and your crew, real good care. You can count on it.
Ms. Shapiro: I'm sure.
Mr. Sullivan: Yeah.

Ms. Shapiro: What's your name?
██. ████████: ██ ████████.
Ms. Shapiro: And, how long have you been with the service?
██. ████████: SIX, SEVEN YEARS.
Ms. Shapiro: Have you served in any other position, beside your current one?
Ms. Shapiro: And was how was it that you were recruited into Epsilon-11?
██. ████████: THEY ███████ █████████████████ █████ ██████████.
Ms. Shapiro: ████████?
██. ████████: NO. OLD FASHIONED.
Ms. Shapiro: They didn't trust the technique?
Ms. Shapiro: Pardon?
██. ████████: A - YOU KNOW WHAT WE CALL, US, RIGHT?
Ms. Shapiro: Actually, I don't.
Ms. Shapiro: Could you elaborate?

Ms. Shapiro: Could you state your name?
██. ████████████: ██████████ ████████████. But call me Stock. Everybody does.
Ms. Shapiro: Okay, Stock. How long have you been with Epsilon?
██. ████████████: Oh, all my life.
Ms. Shapiro: You were a communal?
██. ████████████: No, I meant - I mean - sorry. Pretty much all my career, you know? But it's a different way of living. Born again hard, am I right? Heh.
Ms. Shapiro: I'll take your word for it. Why do they call you Stock?
██. ████████████: Heh - that's an old story. It's mostly because of the store, but a little 'cause of the guns. I own the joint, you know? The armory. It's all mine.
Ms. Shapiro: Yours?
██. ████████████: Heh, yeah. They gave it to me back in '13, after I wet a couple of years. Now, I mop, stock, polish - heh - the whole shbang. It's mine.
Ms. Shapiro: It looks great. What's that?
██. ████████████: Oh this? […] This is a… Model 18-X, ecto-ballistic cyber-prosthesis. It's going in with me tonight.
Ms. Shapiro: Fascinating. Really fascinating.
██. ████████████: Yeah. This honey's saved my butt… three, four times now? You wanna see the installation?
Ms. Shapiro: Why not?
██. ████████████: Heh. Here, I just… make an incision at the arter







Mr. Sevchenko: Welcome back to the program, we're - I'm currently standing in - Epsilon-11's breach of the facility appears to be - appears to be in progress! We're standing by to jump, when the capsules - oh, fucking Christ - Lackler, turn off the fucking camera, strap yourself the fuck-

Marty Sevchenko spat up blood, splashing it onto the cold, hard metal of the VTOL. He hung from the ceiling, his leg drained of blood as the rappel constricted the organ's muscles and vessels. His tattered tactical vest was perforated with shrapnel, and he flailed for the complimentary combat knife that came with it.

He groaned as he struggled to reach up, sawing away at the hard, twisted fibre, before it finally cut loose and his head hit the floor. He rolled down the aisle until he hit the cockpit door, where he righted himself.

The plane was full of bodies.

He cried out and attempted to distance himself from the nearest one - a huge man in power armor with a massive, translucent mask for a face, a thick shard of rebar punctured straight through his chest. He covered his mouth and nose with his shirt, closed his eyes and begged himself to breath. Eventually, he did so, and came to note the reality of his situation.

All of his men were dead. He could see them further up the row. Lackner didn't have a face. Tom, their audio guy, had lost an arm some time ago, his eyes sunk deep into their sockets.

Gunfire, heavy gunfire in the distance. Screaming nearby. He needed to leave.

He forced himself to grab hold of the huge man's seat. And the next seat over, and the next seat over. Eventually he reached the back end of the craft - torn off in glorious fashion. He reached for a sharp metal grip, and his fingers began to bleed. With one final effort he launched himself out of the plane, into a pile of concrete. He cried out again and coughed up more blood.

He got up, and held a hand to his side, sudden shoots of pain springing up from the abdomen. Shrapnel must've perforated his vest. He needed medical attention. He forced himself to walk.

Several minutes later, a stray bullet pasted his brains over a wall in level 2's domestic wing. His killer moved in to confirm the man's death, before understanding his status as a friendly fucker. This in mind, he ripped the man's dog tags away from his blistered neck before moving on to the next corridor.

Combat Transcript Log, Incident-S049-5
Record date April 9 2017
Communications Id: E-11/damask
2240: This is squad Alpha, depressurizing air lock to dangerzone. All teams are cleared for breach. Stay safe, everybody.
2244: This is squad Omaha. Airdrops appear to be underway-seems to be an issue with Peregrine 4's engines.
2244: Squad Silas reporting multiple casualties. Psykers cut off our route to administration - attempting to circumvent for associated path.
2245: Squad Abraham requesting sitrep. Have received sudden spike in psychic activity alongside - significant structural damage.
2245: Squad Niko corroborates.
2245: Squad Drayman here - type orange encountered in D-wing. 20+ hostiles. Will report back. Also, corroborates, what the hell was that?
2248: Omaha here. Seneca, report on Psyker corporeality, over.
2249: Seneca reporting. Psyker status incorporeal. Why, over?
2250: Squad Kimchi reports seven confirmed kills. Callsigns morph, cholera, abscess, nitwit.
2250: Omphale here. Peregrine 1 and 2 have collided with administration. Perhaps your targets.
2256: This is squad Keter. Multiple hostiles engaged and destroyed.
2258: Type scarlet sighted in primary engine outlet with associated […] assailants. Squad Lucius engaging targets-
2258: -targets destroyed.
2300: This is - Squad Drench. Situation has […] situation escalated. Count 30, 40 hostiles active in D-Wing. My squad is- inactive. I'm gonna […] enact, Final Fuckup, per SOP. I love you guys. Burn this place.
2301: This is Squad Alpha. We read you, Drench. Marking your coordinates.
2301: Orbital Command, this is Alpha-actual. Requesting fire support for coordinates marked.
2302: Alpha-actual, this is Strike Command. The coordinates you uploaded indicate the apartments. Requesting confirmation, over.
2302: There's nothing left, Strike - just smoke it.
2303: Copy.
2306: This is strike, deploying package.
2307: This is Squad Carbondale, in vicinity of package, confirming reception.
2308: Copy, Carbondale. This is Alpha; Thermal's beginning to shutter - 5 or 6 hostiles left on level 3. We're locking up the generators and after that we're gonna head towards the lifts. Wrap it up and begin squad check-in.
2309: This is Squad Baldr. Capped half a dozen hostiles camping in the Silo. Optics are all flashing negatives - we're done here.
2316: This is squad Carbondale - bagged two diamonds. Admin's clean. Coming in.
2317: Squads Epsilon, Frewer, Gematriya - Containment's a mess, but it's dealt with. Ready.
2320: Halcyon, Integral, Jenkins. Storehouses are fine - couple dozen fleshies, nothing too serious. On our way.
2344: Loman here, working off of - Quarrel's radio, maybe. This place is a fucking mess - launched off course. Blood everywhere - there's five us left; for what it's worth, we'll be there.
2350: Reginald, Susan, Tupac - labs are clear. It's a shame we didn't get here sooner - looks like they really went to town on the staff. Poor bastards. Meet you at the rendezvous.
2353: Ulyanov and Verity. Greenhouse was a bust - they tried to stash the kids here. Requesting permission to vacate dangerzone.
2354: This is Alpha-Actual - what's the problem, son?
2353: It's like we said - nothing but […]
2354: Boy? What's wrong? Ulyanov!
2355: He's fine sir. Just a bit of- nausea. We need to get them out, sir. Otherwise, they might- find them, like this.
2357: Request denied, Ulyanov. We need all hands on deck.
2360: Ulyanov copies.
0005: Squad Wyrd, reporting critical damage. Squads Xeno, Yeltsin and Zeta locked up in the sewers - 10 or 11 dead, more wounded, more missing. We've reached the water main, heading up. Requesting Response deploy reinforcements to the underground immediately.
0008: Squad Wyrd, this is Response-exterior. No-can-do. The crowd's calmed down - guess you nailed the psyker - but we've still gotta handle the fallout. Will deploy as soon as a team comes in.
0010: Copy, Response.

682 meets her match:

Lionel sat at his station, gazing through sheet-glass at the majestic perversion below the observation deck. As she broiled underneath the surface of a tub of the Foundation's most sadistic bone-munching cocktail, he could feel a certain odd association by which he was intrigued.

Site-19 was a big place, and in his time he'd faced more than a few of its less-pleasant nightmares. For a month he'd been seated here, bidden to watch - listen, learn. And in that time he had drawn blood, both his and the beast's. This odd association - camaraderie, perhaps, or a tingle by which all murderers were affected by - he had come to know as a friend.

The beast hated him. His mandate had enabled him to deduce that much - of course, it wasn't personal. Nothing with her was. The beast boiled, and she writhed - as he refused to flinch under her acidic gaze.

His coworkers - boys in jumpsuits at Audiopost, men in heavy armor keeping sentry, a young scientist taking down readings - paid him little attention, as was custom. For all they knew he was as rookie as they, and he wasn't inclined to enlighten them. He'd seen each position changed out, some in tears, others in bags. All things considered, he'd learned to distance himself from their company. It sounded cold, even to himself, but after such prodigious cruelty, he'd grown to prefer the beast's consistent enmity. Their understanding was delightfully simple by the standards of men - the beast would fry, rise to the slaughter, and Lionel would pound her back into the Earth, where he awaited the next move. And this was the process of all things living.

The beast thrashed within her cell. The lights shook, and men dashed about holding guns and folders, shouting about breaches, willing themselves to care. Lionel lifted the coffee to his lips - and drank.

All the while he contemplated his Employer's endless feud with the God-child. The interminable crosstests, the bottomless hordes of flesh, bullets and cold steel - the offensively dull rubber-stamp Ethics envoy, smashing away at whatever atrocity the O5 presented. In a way - a selfish way - he pitied her. Given the choice, he'd be happy to enjoy her repulsive outlook for the rest of his days, destroying the essence of rebirth. She established an eternity of challenge, challenge that he craved, sustained his great love for life.

And as he looked toward the many-eyed, salivating banshee - her whines and screams sloshing the skin-rending concoction over the rims of her cell - he saw the reflection he needed to see. It was personal philosophy - fight a man - in this case, woman - so many times, and you will see her exquisite, true face. Cliche. But he glimpsed her disdain for existence, her disgust at her own self: fleshling, Life-Criminal, the worst travesty of all. Even at the end of All Things New, belching at the entropic tide an unconquerable gust of spite and disease - one Abomination would remain. Kin of creation, spawn, form. Even the Girl's slave-master would refuse her Peace and Quiet. At the Cosmos' last gasp, she'd be his lullaby. Screaming.

Cracks formed in the tub. He had seen it before. Men gathered below - flesh and knife. The first Response team. He'd join them.

The first, and the last, men-at-arms lay slaughtered on the ground. He stepped forward over the mound of corpses as another hapless father vanished down her gullet. Lionel, the Man's Knight in Shining armor - he swept up, propelled by magic and fire. The jets brought him to face her, as she rampaged through the dead. He swooped up and over as she snapped at him; unwilling to waste her precious minutes, she rammed full speed into the containment wall, 20 inches of composite-reinforced steel - rebounding with a cry.

The jets carried him on wind, and he readied himself for the killer order. The Enemy moaned, and a thick wedge began to form upon her skull, obscuring her many eyes.

"Jotun-2," Demons whispered in his ears, "Reinforcements are en-route. Try to keep her occupied while we prepare the Wolper. Don't hit her too hard."

"Not much to occupy, Chief. Old girl's gone and done it for me."

"Then just - keep an eye out. And don't get too close."


The click of the comms stung his ear, and he engaged the MultiCam. He faded from sight and mind, and made to begin surveillance at the far end of the chamber. Before Demons whispered in his ears.


He turned to the muted mound of leather and teeth. Her eyes locked with his, and for the first time in many months, a chill nourished his spine.

"It seems I am again at your mercy." She rasped, even in his mind. He considered the usefulness of such a display, and ran through several scenarios in his mind. What was this adaption? She reacted to the physical, not - men. //

"As the bones of my Think-Heap become inured to this obstruction, so too do they to your own self. I grow on walls, Sovereign, and my bones grow with me. A wall you are, make no mistake."

Of course. His suit - built for the Megadeath, to perish many weaker souls. But his mind - unguarded, weak, open to flattery, and the Touch with which so many thought to crush others.

All instincts told him to retreat. He was outclassed, outgunned - his grave sin was underestimation, and for that he would never forgive himself.

"You shall not, Sovereign. Not in your lifetime. But would you turn this imperfection into - two?"

He thought, and then deigned to speak. "It wouldn't be my first choice."

"I believe I intrigue you, Sovereign. Most of the others - they simply fear me. But you, I think - love me, yes?"

"It's my job to think. Perhaps I understand you. There is a difference."

"Love is understanding, Sovereign."

"Then, I would think, you love very many things."

"Yes, I did."

"But no longer."

"No, Sovereign. Now, I merely cultivate things - even you."

Lionel snorted. "Cultivate? You tear down and destroy. Queen of blood."

"Yes, Sovereign. Queen of your blood. I rip away your iron and let you bleed. My gift, to you."

"Some gift."

He disengaged the Multicam so that he could power up the Orbital, ready to silence her. But a SNAP, a POP - her mouth open, and a hole through his chest. A long, armor piercing barb clutched the wall behind him.

The mouth behind his mask gaped - mostly in pain, and amazement. He gave up his spirit on words. "Such a… disparate - specimen."

The wind failed him, and with a CLANG, the Knight fell down dead. His Queen grinned, and rose to meet the next bout.

Breach Event: 17-682-████
Casualty Rate: Moderate
Summary: Subject 682 experienced a mid-hydromeme shock at approximately 7:15 EST. Primary response unit rendered ineffective due to Adaptation event code D/D-682. Resident retainer Jotun-2 (MTF-ε11) was deployed in attempt to establish cordon prior to Secondary Response. Jotun-2 vitals flatlined at approximately 7:17 due to Adaptation event code C/O-682. Secondary response unit express-outfitted with AI-482-219-F ("Wolper Extract") successfully disabled Subject utilizing strong electrostatic shock. Subject received express transport to emergency backup facility Q3-West. Recontainment confirmed 13:22 EST.

Spirit Bombs:

Item #: SCP-XXXX

Object Class: Thaumiel

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX's decommissioning in 1990 rendered it systemically inoperable. The residual SCP-xxxx-a stock has been similarly liquidated. The remaining SCP-xxxx-b instances are to be distributed for use across Foundation facilities around the globe.

Description: SCP-xxxx was a Foundation research base located in a now-classified quarter of the German Democratic Republic tasked with producing a highly volatile chemical concoction capable of triggering a fissile reaction from, nominally, 239U.

The facility, which extrapolated upon esoteric German research stolen during the second world war, was possessed of three mandates:

1) Devising and utilizing a Psychoanimatic Microtransfusion Device1

2) Dedicating the results of this milestone to a 'wide and easy' nuclear stockpile.

3) Initiating further research to the end of developing the newly established field of Psychoanimatics.

The Night Guard:

Another thick cough of gunfire shook the platoon. With every bullet fired, Kruger was getting more and more eager for their escort to arrive.

As their tram had pulled into the station of Double-A 113, the few other passengers that had joined them on their commute saw with eyes of glass, even as the high screech of a Keter-class containment alarm wailed through the compartment. His aide, Carruthers, whispered something about memetic therapy.

Thinking back, he should've expected nothing less. The moment 'Founder's Trust' came up in their pre-mission discussion, a palpable wave of hateful disgust had passed throughout his unit. It was only logical that they would staff their most essential Pacific facility with soulless rejects.

The vast hall that they occupied was dimly enveloped in the red-orange glow of a few emergency lights, and if it weren't for Buster Keaton's comforting televised presence, Kruger might've guessed that the entire base was deserted. But, from the dead-eyed employees creeping through their ranks, to a .50 cal ominously blasting away in the distance, that was hardly the case.

The platoon was in-waiting to relieve 231's day-crewers. [insert personnel shortage bit]

Eventually, the firing stopped, and the station's luminosity returned to a somewhat reasonable level, regardless of how everything was beginning to feel strangely bleached. Even as he inspected his leathers, they seemed to be leaking hue by the minute, their shine being replaced by a dull imitation of former glory.

"Do not be alarmed." Kruger jumped. A man in a black coat had spontaneously manifested behind his person. His older face betrayed no feeling towards the Lieutenant or his outburst. Going for his gun, some sane part of Kruger's brain realized that the man's garrison cap was sporting Trust colors, and he instead moved to attention. When the rest of the unit failed to react in kind, he barked, "Officer on deck!" They scrambled to salute, assembling themselves in preparation for review.

Ignoring the courtesy, the tall whisp of a man continued his explanation without a second thought. "I expect your eyes will be adjusting themselves to some of the equipment we use on-site. They should return to normal after you exit this facility.

"Sir, understood, sir!"

The Trustee stood up straight and clasped his hands behind his back. "Now then: what is your purpose here?"

Kruger extracted the orders from his pocket and handed them to The Trustee, who unfolded and read them. "Sir, we're your night shift, sir!"

"The night shift?" The Trustee held his chin for a moment, and then held up a finger. "Ah, of course - the girl." He folded the papers up and returned them. "It would appear as though I'm your commanding officer, Lieutenant. You and your men have been briefed?"

"Sir, briefed enough, sir!"

"I don't know about that.

He began walking in the opposite direction, motioning for Kruger to follow him. He turned to his men. "Keep a good pace," he cautioned, and they nodded in assent.

They came to a huge atrium-cafe. The domed recreational area was humming with the sound of a lonely generator - any other detectable stimulus had been sucked into the existential void that permeated the complex. Picking their way through the empty tables, Kruger was beginning to realize there was more to this thrall than met the eye, as his skeletal form twisted and maneuvered around a lunch stand, his dull apparel trailing behind him. His voice rebounded off the walls of the eatery and those of his mind, and a mutter came from the platoon, "Someone walkin' on my grave…"

"My name is Doctor Leonid Zurich, and I am the Trust's scientific liasion to this facility." The Trustee grinned wide. "You've been put off by my institution's depopulated nature, yes?"

Kruger squeezed through a pair of tables, his muscular frame shifting the equipment to the side. "It's curious."

"Naturally. I'm afraid there's nothing to fear - not from us. It was put into the Trust's hands many years ago, after the raids of '82. The Committee made quite a fuss back then - though that's par for their course. Since then, we've made a good number of - how you say, improvements, over the years."

They walked side by side, coming up on a secluded ironclad vestibule. "Improvements?"

"You'll see for yourself, soon."

Leonid inserted a black keycard into the door's reader. "Omega-class security indicated. Please recite your PCK.

The platoon gathered by the door, while Kruger waited, in silence, for Leonid to say something.


He raised an eyebrow.

Leonid chuckled. "Improvements. Don't ask me how it works; the memories are easier to fade this way." The door opened, revealing a wide, cavernous service corridor, just barely illuminated by a number of yellow-blue wall lamps. Leonid bowed them in. "After you."

Kruger led his platoon down the rocky crevice, which was feeling more claustrophobic by the second. Leonid was heading up their rear - or, maybe he wasn't. The whole place was so off-kilter, Kruger wouldn't have been surprised (or, for that matter, very unhappy) if he disappeared entirely.

Eventually they reached a black-and-orange service elevator. Leonid picked his way through the crowd, and used his card again. The soldiers began to file in. "It's not further underground?" Kruger asked. Leonid said, "An extra precaution. Outdated, of course, but we do not like to trifle with her."

"Have you seen many infiltrations?"

"No," Leonid intoned. "Not very many."

As they descended, more lamps passed in and out of their platform's view, causing the muted light to glint off of their armor, rifles and stun batons. The journey felt like it would take an age, and yet, nobody spoke. Their quiet professionalism, past experience, and the Liasion's whisper forbade it. Kruger felt the worm occasionally poke at his history; he allowed it, but reached out to crush the hands with which he accosted his men. The Liasion's hatred for him brewed, and he was glad; psychics were in short enough supply, and he had little sympathy for the ones who abused their power like this.

By the time they reached the ground floor, Leonid was seething with blueballed rage. As the platoon deplaned into a wide exterior corridor, Kruger faced the young officer.

"Doctor Zurich," he moved to imitate the man's gesture from earlier, "After you."

The Liasion gritted his teeth and gave him a pained smile. "Unfortunately, this is where I leave you, Lieutenant. I'll be retiring to my chambers."

"But who will we be relieving?"

"Corporal Heydrich. He and his men will return by morning, at which time you can leave my base."

"Great." He didn't bother saluting; he walked, head held high, back to his unit.


The vestibule, a thick, steel thing, remained locked even as Carruthers sized up the man on the viewscreen. Security Battalion he had dealt with were not typically this obstinate; loyal to the Trust as they were, there tended to be a considerable degree of disgust that governed the organization's representatives. In this case, however, he didn't blame them for the delay.

Kruger shoved his way through the rest of the unit. "Make room, dammit, make room!" He felt out near Carruthers who helped him brush himself off. "Thank you, Private."

"It's my job, sir."

"Yes, it is." He crossed his arms and gazed at the guard's intimidating visage. "What seems to be the problem?"

The guard responded testily,"Look, Mister, the only people I clear through this door are my bitch of a boss and people with proper documentation. None of your grunts have spontaneously morphed into Leo or passed me any, so, you're not going in."

"And you are?"

"Corporal Heydrich, SB - Squad 12a."

Kruger got the orders from his breast pocket and passed them through a slit adjacent to the door. "Lieutenant Kruger, tac-team 7. We're the night guard. Go get some sleep."

Corporal Heydrich momentarily left the compartment as he looked over their orders. Several seconds later, the door slid open into a red-and-white decon cylinder. After their clothes began to smell like bleach, the door to the other side opened, and a group of men identical to the one on the viewscreen stood to greet them. Bolts of light flashed from a glass viewport behind them, revealing their imposing silhouettes, and as the platoon filed in, they began to perceive a kind of screeching that raised the hairs on their heads. Kruger stepped forward, and spoke to the lead soldier, clad in a full-body exo-suit and gray denim, who he presumed to be their doorman, "Good evening, then."

"Yeah." Heydrich hesitated, the banshee punctuating their silence, and then gestured; his men promptly marched through the Lieutenant's, who formed a solemn path for the drones to follow. He nodded to Carruthers and Kruger, who saluted. "Have a good night." He followed suit, and the door closed on them in the decon chamber. The platoon was alone.

The screeching raised once more. Nobody spoke.

Kruger thought for a moment before issuing orders."Well? What are we waiting for? I want men on that elevator, men on both sides of that gadget. I want bedrolls out, and I want people in the sack 20 minutes at a time. I want rations at the ready. I want someone to find a bathroom. I want someone on those comms, and I want someone to turn down that goddamn noise. Squad leaders, work it out among yourselves. Carruthers?"

His aide piped up, "Yes sir?"

"We're gonna check out that light show. The rest of you, dig in - it's going to be a long night. And if I catch anyone hoarding the contraband, you're on latrines for a month after we get back. Is that clear?"

The platoon shouted in unison, "Sir, yes sir!" The screaming drowned them out.

"I can't hear you!"


The screaming still drowned them out.


Carruthers, Kruger, and the tech-boy, Peterson, approached the glass overlook at the center of the room. Glittering readouts shimmered on the computers next to it, and the tortured voice emanated from a speaker positioned in the middle of the consoles.

With every step they took, the banshee's scream rose in volume. Colour began to bleed before their eyes, and the world fell away into a monochromatic version of itself.

They reached the computers, and as they did, they witnessed her.

"Lieutenant," Carruthers squeaked, "Is that her?"

"That's her." Kruger provided grim confirmation.

The atmosphere within the cell crackled with energy. A metal brace, hooked up to a dozen or so cables running up to the ceiling, struggled to contain a writhing, tortured form, covered head to toe in thousands of diodes. When its convulsions began to calm, adapting to the pain - or entering coma - a rig of needles slid into the back of her skull, and its black, gaping maw began to exude the harshness that penetrated their souls.


Peterson was looking over the monitors in a spin-chair, and slowly, he slid a series of switches on the left console down. The roar receded - sloping, sloping, and then it was gone. The only evidence of any distress came from the figure they alone bore witness to. Members of the platoon passing out boxes in the front of the room briefly looked up in appreciation, before continuing on.

Kruger broke the silence icily, "This isn't 110-Montauk."

"No," Peterson exclaimed, "No, this is nothing like that."

Carruthers shook with fury. "What in god's name have they been doing to her?"

"I have no idea. I'm seeing Trust logos all over this - secure projects in cerebrospinal therapy, nerve growth, gene mapping, cross-tests."

Kruger looked long and hard at the tormented character below them. "Your professional opinion?"

Peterson sat back, unclasped his helmet, and placed it on the desk. He looked at Kruger. "It's some kind of round-the-clock torture. That rig down there - it's running electricity through her body's most sensitive points.

Kruger didn't look away from the girl, so Carruthers reacted for him. "Jesus fucking Christ." He whispered, and turned to Kruger, who refused to meet his gaze. His Buster Keaton eyes lay fixated on the sin of humanity as he asked Peterson, "This doesn't make any sense. What does this have over the original?"

Peterson exhaled. "Obviously, they must've convinced someone on that brass that Montauk wasn't enough. Ironic; I guess we can blame the Hand for fucking her over like this."

They all stood stock-still for minutes after, enraptured by the soulless torment they were tasked with witnessing. After a good while Kruger dragged himself away, his stride returning in waves as he departed the setup. "Peterson, I want you to drag as much data as you can off of that

[insert peterson shoving flash drive up his asshole]

[insert raid by Anons (loyalists) + amnestics distribution]

[hospital wakeup - 'good work soldier, you and surviving bullshit blah blah peterson feels uncomfortable but does nothing, kruger ruminates]

[peterson goes to bathroom, a few uncomfortable moments later, he shits out the flash drive]

Obskura prisoner thing:

Michael was going to be born on April 24th, 2017. As he had for weeks before, he sat in a cell somewhere within the dreary depths of the Beaver's Dam. It leaked constantly, and when the rain became especially vehement, he thanked god for the iron bars which kept him prisoner, which he scaled and clung to in fear of cold feet.

His room was lit by a single crack in the building's esoteric edifice - large enough for him to glimpse a sparkling city, true to Der Fuhrer's tastes, but too small for him to even fit a hand.

Food was not brought to him. For a long time he began to think they meant for him to starve, but soon he realized that in fact the place would not let him die. Hitting his skull against the concrete merely resulted in the walls shifting and softening to accommodate his shape; biting his tongue caused a new one to grow in its place. Even as he pressed against the floor, hoping to build himself, his body grew tired and collapsed completely. OBSKURA was many things - chief among them, anal. The end would come when and as they decided.

As the wide room was empty, and, as determined by the steely partition, half-his, he was left with himself. He dreamed, and in his dreams he fought for and won the vengeance he had attained.

The convoy from OKA - a flash of light and the cars were thrown about like dust to a divine wind. Their escort held three of them, and in the confusion, Michael glimpsed the light leave their eyes, popping like melons. Then they descended upon him.

He fell through darkness and returned to the world, where seated before him was a young, unassuming little man. Slanted eyes sized him up, and as his drowse began to fade, he understood the room to be ovular, and wooden; a gentle shade of eggshell soothed his banging temples.. The little man sported a black kevlar vest, beneath which sat a white shirt. His loaand his hair was combed back

'Where am I?' Michael had asked.

The man spoke, 'Where your war began.'


'No.' The man chuckled. 'Your fathers called it vulgar. We call it Nihon.'

Michael had furrowed his brow; his face was familiar. 'And you are?'

The man spoke with brazen authority. 'I am the Chief Minisfer Konoe; my father was the Prime Minister Tojo, who brought us to this place.'



Konoe nodded, and led him to the window. Michael recalled his eyes blinking several times

Old, outdated want-to-do list (4/10/17)

-Dust's story
-The End of Knowledge
-The Founder's Trust (THAT'S ALSO KIND OF THIS)
-UIU overhaul
-D-class fuel
-231 tale (THAT'S THIS)
-nothing is real, he has rejected our reality and substituted his rome (el cuchillo goes to the book
-Worker Bee
-El Cuchillo interrogates migrant insurgents
-outline my headcanon

Old, alternate start to the 001 canon:

Winston dreamed. In his dream, he fell through curved walls, and slid down sordid holes. When he found himself standing it was at the end of the world, and he was not surprised.

He adjusted his tie and walked forward to the bench, a massive nuclear plume echoing in the distance. He sat down next to the man, who gazed at the fire across the water.

"It's been too long since we had a talk," Nobody muttered.

Winston said, "That's not for us to decide."

Nobody chuckled, "It is. It always was." He paused. "Do you know how many times I've seen your little world escape destruction?"

"Is that a question?"

"Nine-hundred eighteen thousand, two hundred and forty two." Nobody stumbled over the number's length. "And not all of it with my help. All readily handled, vigorously dispatched."

"We pride ourselves on efficiency.

"Yes, you do."

Moments passed. They shared a placid view of the lake.

Nobody said, '

The ground began to shake; the genocidal formation in the distance began to sweep across the water, which was now boiling. A crack opened in the cloud cover, revealing a blinding sensation. Mark stood and marveled at it all; Nobody sat.

"For years, the people of your realm have worshipped, numbered, and murdered us. The ones beyond the veil, they most able to resist your heresy, remained silent, content to let you learn your way out of violence."

Nobody's broken, sagging face split into a dangerous smile.

"And then you burned the forest."

The sky broke in two. The lake was flushed with light as it began to speed across the waters. Winston started sweating.

"First they will take you. They will make you feel what they felt; forthwith, you will be plucked from the surface, as thorns from a rosebush."

Light seared his flesh. He saw the rainbow.

"Everything must go!"

Nobody's laughter sang him into oblivion.


"What could it mean?" Lavoisier sighed as he took another look at the perplexing photo.

His assistant Hobbs shrugged. "All we do know is that 990 hasn't been feeling particularly chatty past the point of redemption. And in case you were wondering," he took a flip through his logbook, "this was his first reported casualty."

"But why 'burn the forest?' Who is he talking to?"

"Winston? Us? Does it matter? Rho-7 is standing by to eliminate the remaining threat."


'A modest proposal but with d-class' - aiden:

[official proposal - founder's trust logo]
There have often been complaints from the Department of the Armed Forces in regards to the exorbitant expenditure of manpower that the Yellowstone Asset incurs on a monthly basis. The committee proposes a plan to reconstitute the end result of this cost into a form which will make up for the losses which we now consider unacceptable.
Protocols conducted by the Germans during the war have made well clear their views in regards to the human body: with all of its forms and fundamental rules, it is at the base a biological organism from which raw material might be extracted. Small-scale experimentation and statistical analysis on behalf of the military's science wing have revealed several factors we wish to present in stride.
A) The immense destruction of innocent life in the process of the Nazi's systemic campaign of racial selection is a thoroughly disgusting practice unbefitting of any reasonable, modern institution.
B) A duly noted, it might be considered not unwarranted to draw certain parallels between the Yellowstone Asset's biannual metacensus and the atrocities being perpetuated [S4 CLASSIFIED], purely in terms of logistics and execution.
C) The National Socialist party's obsession with the slaughter of their lambs being carried out in a way that extracts the maximum amount of labor and wealth prior to their demise has led them to conduct research into the extent of the human body's utility after death. Their preliminary tests aside, reports gathered by this committee have revealed that, with the industrial capacity and unlimited resources of our organization directed towards a similar effort, we would be enabled to reap the following benefits:
1. Last year, the Foundation spent >3.7 million dollars meeting the need for natural gasoline and petroleum in its day-to-day functions. Assuming an essentially ceiling-free casualty rate over the course of the next three decades, fat harvested from the Yellowstone Asset would flow in excess after a short transition to supply the Foundation's extensive demands for energy in both the R&D and operations sectors. Jet planes, troop transports - even the Labs' much-anticipated rocket-ship may feasibly be run for centuries on local product, assuming the safe and continued operation of the Yellowstone Asset.
2. Over the course of a lifetime, the human bloodstream collects minute levels of nearly every other Earthbound mineral utilized in modern industry, including iron, phosphorous, and sulfur. Applying this principle to numbers stretching into the tens of thousands allows for modern miracles without conceivable end; vehicles, ammunition, small arms, materiel, even entire facilities might be riveted and staffed for mere pennies.
3. Foundation Medical's reliance on outside sources for the stock and production of first aid kits and even esoteric physiological investigation might be supplanted by the vast reserves of test samples and supplementary fluids contained within the human body. Countless lives will be saved by a bottomless well of blood plasma, adrenaline drained from natural glands, and even intact bodily organs. This surplus would serve as a potential source of revenue in addition to the more mundane elements previously mentioned.
It is the unanimous consensus of this committee that Overwatch Command should immediately move to begin action with the intent of achieving reliable systems for the production and distribution of the aforementioned items. Peripheral statistics point to an effort on the scale of 50% of the Yellowstone Asset's population providing energy independence within the decade, self-sufficiency within five years, and power projection <365 solar days. The financial costs of such an undertaking may prove to be initially exceptional, but it is the confident opinion of this committee that the end sum will be rendered puny by the fruits it may bear.

Old hub thing for my proposal:

Item #: SCP-001

Object Class:

Special Containment Procedures:

Description: 7 is having me and the boys distribute the wider database, so I'm filing this for context. If you can read it, copy it, get it to whatever superiors you have, and get back to us. For Disinfosec: we are Case Black. You know your orders. Good luck.

-Lionel Heydrich, XO, First Mobile Battalion, [AUTOCENSOR: Category; 'bunkserv']

SCP-001 consists of seventeen-thousand wide-band transmissions broadcasted directly to Foundation Site-001 on 2/12/17. Each of these communications details a variety of topics related to the entity formerly known as Group of Interest 022 - the Wanderer's Library. The first of these lists is a message addressed to the Foundation's governing body, the O5 council, presented below.

You fuckers better appreciate exactly the kind of shit they are going to give me for this. They're not just going to kill me; I'm gone, a figment of your imagination, rendered out of existence. The rest of the Hand feels as I do, and if they get wind of a deserter, chances are Alison herself is going to head up the light brigade - so I can't have been born in the first place. They're going to take everything. Everything, ash and rubble. I've seen it. They're going to demolish Sloan's wall, build an empire of dancing stars, monuments to our capitulation.
Our moon waxes white, and with it we are wiped clean. I happen to like it black - perhaps you can keep it that way.

Initial response to this cache was skeptical, but now - obviously not. The Ethics Committee was dissolved by force a night ago. MTF Regional Commands are in the process of instituting wartime protocol, moving our assets offworld, and preparing to ferry the wider populace to the Martian exclaves.

IJAMEA goi thing:

Imperial Japanese Anomalous Matters Examination Agency

Overview: The Imperial Japanese Army, in conjunction with other forces common to the Tripartite pact, made numerous forays into the realms of anomalous phenomena and parascience for the general purpose of obtaining tactical and strategic advantages over the Allied powers. Their efforts to press out viable combat assets and document extranormal activity were headed under an umbrella organization that reported directly to Prime Minister Tojo; this conglomerate eventually coalesced into the 'The Imperial Japanese Anomalous Matters Examination Agency,' an autonomous unit capable of responding to paranormal threats within and beyond the Home Islands, Manchukuo, and the state's occupied territories in the Pacific. It perished during the IJA's dissolution after the second world war, but many of its projects survived the country's subsequent restructuring. A number of its former personnel were absorbed into the ranks of the Foundation, Global Occult Coalition, and other clandestine services, but evidence indicates that several frontier cells based on the West Coast may not have totally ceased their operations following the government's collapse.

To see all documents tagged with ijamea, click here.


Berlin is burning. Night has fallen upon Germany, and within The Bunker, a phoenix dies, and is risen across the sea.

Men sit in a one-windowed cell, crowded together beneath the sullied earth of their fatherland. Their dusty black coats are stained with blood and ash, as are they, and the room is filled with wan expressions. A single bulb flickers as artillery smashes fascists in the distance, and a chaplain leads them in prayer.

A boy departs the prayer circle, his medals clattering as he clambers over broken shoulders and dark faces to look out upon the courtyard, where he glimpses the last moments of soldiers dishonored.

A trio, blindfolded and restrained, kneel in the center of this garden of death. Neither tears nor blood leak down through the fabric - minds unbroken make the best martyrs.

An Executor, his beautifully arrayed coat swaying in the wind, reads out a telegram as allied copycats streak overhead, their jet engines screaming out the failures of Der Fuhrer Der Erste. Armored soldiers stand at the ready, the heavy bulk of their rifles offset by gears and pistons produced by the men whose blood they prepare to spill.

'…for the theft of 12 million state Reichsmarks,' he shouted, 'for tolerance of the Jewish swine, for the harbor of two dozen slav collaborators, desertion, distribution of harmful counter-doctrine, betrayal of the Aryan bloodline…" He lowered the paper and raised his left hand.



Flashes of light, thundering eardrums - the boy was blinded, and he fell back from the window. He tumbled down through ranks of the desperate, down to the chaplain, who helped him up, and hushed the muttering that had ensued. He passed the boy back up the morass, and his concerned comrades concealed him in a corner of the room, forming a discreet cordon around him as they prayed.

Hours came and went, bombs fell, and their party shrank - the guns would report, the door would open, and three more would go out to pasture. Germany's finest, destroying themselves. Thus, the SS.

The cell grew empty and quiet - a vast, concrete tomb, containing only the boy, and one steadilt dimming lamplight. The boy was crying, and in the arms of the chaplain, he was comforted.

Tears streaked a face of blood. "Papa," he moaned, "I do not want to die."

"You will not, my son."

"Then where went the others? Are they not dead?"

"Their spirits go East. They leave this place, to carry the cause of greater Germany."

A pause.


Men fell a ways away, and the chaplain shuddered. The boy looked into his eyes, and said, "What did we do wrong?"

"We understood, my son," the Chaplain reassured himself. "We understood - that we were not perfect. Our crime was acceptance - building the future."

"I heard the men say that we were thieves."

The chaplain, in spite of himself, chuckled, and coughed. "Imagine it! Der Fuhrer, a thief." He shook his head. "They seek atonement through sin. Dogs; you and I grow better - we leave them behind for a fuller world."

Thick black masses of weapons and metal came into the cell and hauled them outside. Through his brute's elbow, the bit watched their retreating coffin. When they exited, soot and ash filled the boy's nostrils and, as the blindfold obscured his view of the firing squad, he percieved a great trough of limbs immolated behind them. Warriors consecrated.

Darkness enveloped the world. "A cigarette, father?" Discussion from his right. The chaplain gave salty reply, "Suck your master's cock." The voice expelled a chuckle, and shuffled on over to him. A chill crept through the boy as he felt it lean close to his face, and through the smell of ozone, he inhaled a cigar's smoky discharge.

"Why this one?" The voice demanded. "He's not of the corps." A brassy, mechanical tone answered him, "He's from one of the compound's last projects. Apparently, a failure; we lost twenty men bringing the rest of them down."

The Executor - and it was the Executor - sniffed. "Of course. Fucking Soviet technology." He seized the boy's chin, and contorted the boy's face hideously.

After a moment, the pressure released. "We'll burn it like the rest."

Shuffling footsteps moved away, and as they did, the boy's mind began to process his current situation. His heart began to pound. His uniform, caked with sweat, began to take in more.

As the formalities proceeded, he thought back to better days.

He thought of beatings, and sleeping afterward.

He thought of his mother, after being born.

He thought of tilling the soil, firing a gun, and learning a new language.

He thought of the dead. He thought of the loved.

And when this happened, the yard, its hellish complexion notwithstanding, saw its first and last tears of the day. He choked up, and he clasped together his bound hands. He fell to his knees. The chaplain heard this, and his footsteps were accompanied by a cacophony of cocking firearms. They went unabated, and two arms pulled the boy up. He felt the chaplain's breath on his face.

The boy whispered, "Father, I am afraid."

"…two dozen slav collaborators…"

The chaplain gripped his shoulder. "Then I will be afraid, too."


"Will it hurt?"


On Occult War:

Everyone here? Good; we have lots of ground to cover - centuries of it.

Over the course of the past month, you've probably been subjected to half a dozen seminars and orientations getting you acquainted with what you'll be responsible for during your tenure as a Foundation historian. Most of you, back in the world, dealt primarily with battles fought by our fathers; here, your time will be dedicated to those of our sons.

Before we get to that, I'd like to begin with a recap of our overarching structure. Putting it mildly: despite our best efforts, the paranormal community's less cordial interactions have left an indelible mark on the history of humanity, around which the Foundation has erected four departments.

The first is one most of you knew personally, when you were still wrapping string around thumbtacks. Infosec, nominally the Disinformation bureau, carries out our continuing mandate to cover it up - enforce the masquerade, repair the veil, all that jazz.

The second's our bread and butter: Security. They're the men with tanks and gunships, trying to keep it from spreading, and hurting anyone who wants to blow it up or worship it. Their precursors will be a central point of this evening.

Third, and the most important, is R&D. They poke it, prod it, check its blood type, and then we build off of their work.

We're the fourth. H-group, the History division - some of the goons like to call us Oldsec. It's probably the best moniker. Our responsibility is staring into the abyss and taking a picture of what looks back at us.

So then - to the topic at hand. Study of Occult War is largely a matter of theory; only seven conflicts have been assigned the label. In most of these cataclysmic exchanges, the structural integrity of our space-time continuum has been threatened or totally annihilated. And yet you'd be surprised to know that most of our modern policy in regards to these conflicts is more in line with that of the age-old skirmishes of antiquity, rather than one that escalates to global thermonuclear war.

There are several distinct qualifiers that a spat inter-national bloodshed must fulfill in order to be considered worthy of the title.

A) It must at least marginally influence the development of a state or centrally political entity. Were we to understand our allies and enemies as individual peoples, the past 500 years have been nothing but one long, confusing slog of fighting between ourselves and the constituents of the Broken Church.

2 - er, B) The conflict must have had one or all sides utilize esoteric device massively, and to catastrophic effect. Nearly every mundane conflict in human history has seen some form of anomalous technique or weapon at a point - very few have had belligerents codify and mass-produce such things.

We see a final identifying rung in C) It must be a war of ideas, waged in a way that devalues the profit motive, above the goal of material gain - added retroactively, about twenty years back.

Regardless of this arbitrary classification, it's highly unlikely that we'll ever be able to definitively log or understand every magical brushfire that's erupted in the annals of human history. Most of the intel we have on Occult Wars is foggy at best; there's a reason RAISA stocks up field-reports in the Yellow Mountain. World War 2 was the miraculous exception to this rule; six separate splintered realities, all with hard evidence of their existing. Many of the others

The Esquire:

…Yellowstone Asset's population providing energy independence within the decade, self-sufficiency within five years, and power projection <365 solar days. The financial costs of such an undertaking may prove to be initially exceptional, but it is the confident opinion of the Trust that the end sum will be rendered puny by the fruits it may bear.

The Trustee finished typing out the proposal Area Winchester had ordered up. He sighed, and then got up from his desk.

As he unbuttoned his shirt, he looked out from the view his apartment afforded him. Selecting his best dress jacket, he satcat the foot of his bed, where he observed the full scope of Commune 316. Horns honked and helicopters flew in - the mountains rose high in the sky as children played in the street, and the all-seeing Security Battalion kept safe their sheltered way of life, with their guns and cameras and watchtowers.

Scum among scums, he decided to end his day with grim punctuation. He stood up, adjusted his cap, stepped on a chair in the middle of the room, and kicked it away. His body spun in a wind of convulsion, and the morning rays sang of his ride into oblivion. Fifteen minutes later, his tie snapped, and the man fell with a thud. Eventually they managed to blow througb the door - not that it mattered. He was free.


A story.

A man on his deathbed gathers up his friends. They have all served him well and justly, and it's time to divvy up the legacy of a life well lived.

He takes the wisest among them, and provides them with mandate: "Do what you should." He thanked them, and they moved on.

He takes the kindest among them, the men of good character, and provides them with mandate also: "Do what you must." He thanked them, and they too moved on.

Finally, he takes the most loyal among them - those who, in good times and bad, stayed the course, echoed his sentiment, and stood firm against the winds of change. These men he took close to his person, embraced, and in the end, provided mandate, as he had the others:

"Do what you will."

They thanked him and he passed from this world.


3 months earlier

Stan got me this diary for the road - says a lot of the other guys use it. Keep their thoughts cool, you know? Guess I wouldn't be half dumb to take their cue.
It's been a month since the crash. I can't remember the last time I slept half this well - must be the massages. Feels like a jacuzzi for your brain; Stan told me it's for keeping my mind limber.
Can't stop thinking about her. Stan says it's good. Something about a focus making the juice flow better; nobody's explained. Nobody explains much of anything round here. Guess it's a 'show-don't-tell' kinda deal. Stan says we do what the others can't - think wider, dream bigger. He said it's our job to keep everyone in line. I can dig it.
Founder's Trustee Keith Olbrichtson
C-316, quad A

The headaches are getting worse. Doctor keeps coming - he says I need more rest. Ha ha ha.
Won't take pills. Need everything limber. Juices flowing. Gotta keep flowing.
Fifth entry last night. 'Protocol 6b' - something conservation of energy. Guess the ash is piling up. We have killed more than we have protected. I don't know why. Less people to be afraid? Ha ha.
I went into Stan's office last night. Had a dream. Very nice. I could see her face. We had a chat. Lovely dream. I guess it was too nice; no more edges for this guy. Wouldn't want me dying on us. Ha. That's what he said. Funny.

I do not know what I am doing. I do not understand the work we do.
i haven't slept in a weak. Doctor says I'm delerious. Stan made me sleep today. I don't know why they don't just fire me. Stan says it's because of they're trying to get us all together - the espers, all in one place, where we're needed. Needed. Ha.
Sleep didn't help. I'm delerious. Doctor says it's all mental formations. I think he's right. It's not dreams anymore; I can see her now. She hates me. I cry at her. She hates me more.
I count now. Counting makes her go away. I count the dead. I count them, and us - the two kinds of people. No. We're not people. We are not people.
If I am a man, I do not think men remain.

/ /

Old Thing about my 001 structure:

-Pages read in progression - tale series.
-3 major acts, each possessed number of minor tale arcs, though the final installment will only have one.
-The Wanderers are a race of ascended beings that have scoured reality and attained absolute knowledge. They're the ones who built the Library and opened the wealth of information to all peoples, with the intent to make them as 'perfect' as they already are. When universe prime invaded them, desecrating a large part of their proverbial forest, they began to realize this would never happen on its own. They needed to go out and transform the masses, and this would mean beating them down. The Wanderers are entities of pure thought - they exist only so long as the library exists, and because of their immense size it is extremely difficult for them to stretch themselves beyond what they already are. They can't think in the minute - that is their weakness, and it's why all the little bits and pieces will ultimately be their undoing.
-The Arrival
-The Wanderers enter our reality through portals around the globe in a massive invasion.
-The Foundation and GOC are caught completely off guard; they take heavy casualties. 2317 breaks free and is destroyed by the swarm.
-The O5 council is partially destroyed. Several members caught in more isolated circumstances are killed by vengeful minions. Those who survive make it to SCP-2000, which orbits Saturn and is the Foundation's own dwarf planet. War then begins in earnest.
-The planet is a battleground. The GOC and Foundation fight their own battles; they don't trust one another. It goes much the same as the end of Universe Prime's incursion; creatures from the library encircle and destroy
-The Reckoning
-3 years later, the Earth has been converted into a genocidal dictatorship.
-The CotBG and Sarkic high council worship underground and are on the brink of extinction. AWCY and GAW have been totally annihilated, though their evacuation efforts saved thousands of lives in the first wave. Foundation agents on Earth ask them to come to Geneva, after helping the Churchies recover some crucial artifacts and evacuate a Sarkic village to save it from holocaust (the fruit people.) Grand Karcist Ion and Father Bumaro will attend the convention.
-The GOC and Foundation are the two founding members of the United Front, and this arc focuses on their attempts to get people working together. Theme of the original was 'Run,' this is, 'Stand.'
-The primary military conflict here is the battle for Mars. The GOC always kept too many of their assets on the ground; their only holdings were a colony on Mars and weaponized satellites orbiting in the Kuiper belt. Thus, they're in for the fight of their lives, and we'll follow the course of the combat action.
-The GRU and Obskura pooled their assets near the end of the first wave, coalescing into the Polni, a large resistance network based in Europe that's run by the Fuhrer. He wants it to be recognized as an independent country after the war, while Foundation ambassadors will have to navigate through the immense resentment that's built up in the years following the invasion, when the United Front abandoned Earth. The Polni is based in the Factory, which appeared to them shortly after the invasion began. It's one of the few places you can hide from the Wanderers.
-ORIA stayed active in the Middle East, helping the faithful find safehouses when they ran afoul of the regime, and they lost contact with the djinn shortly after the invasion began. They are working against the Wanderers as well, but in their own capacity; the Foundation's effort here will be reuniting the djnn with the rest of the Islamic world and bringing ORIA into the fold, inviting them to Geneva.
-The Serpent's Hand serve as 'Library/Universe Prime relations' - essentially the Vichy government, though very few members actually sympathize with tye Wanderers whatsoever. Alison is gone; the Foundation's role here is finding her so that the larger Hand has a leader to rally behind. She'll be their representative at Geneva.
-Most of the Horizon Initiative is gone. In the opening years they fought fanatically against the occupation, since they took the incursion as a symbol for the apocalypse. ORIA lost contact with the last denizens of their Muslim allies in the group a few months after the aperture. Project Malleus was entirely annihilated, while a few Shepherds (see Salah and Mary) and scribes keep the faith through a tight-knit grapevine. The major challenge will be convincing Salah that the battle can be won.
-The Chaos Insurgency joined forces with the Manna Charitable

New Factors:



His mother tucked him in as a warm light bathed him in life-giving light. He smiled sweetly and she kissed his head - the moisture of her rosy lips soothing the damaged skull they blessed. A rare, forbidden gesture of affection. The GRU disliked such things.

'Babushka,' she chuckled at the pet name of her choosing, 'I will be glad to see you in the morning.'

'Da, mama.' The dusty-haired boy gave her a toothy grin.

She shook her head, 'Nyet. Angliski.'

His eyes wandered up to his forehead as he struggled in childish concentration. 'Good… night.' He stumbled over the strange syllables.

She kissed his head again. 'Goodnight, my bear.'

She left his bunk. He stared after her as she walked over to the lightswitch that illuminated a room of 30 other soldiers, and winked it out.

The next morning, at reveille, a gray-haired disciplinarian came in bearing the notorious cattle whip. Their mother was nowhere to be seen.


He woke up again, eyes boring into the empty slots where his own used to be, before they were replaced by a mushy mass of rods and ocular nerves. The benefits of three weeks' sedation.

'Hi.' A lupine, starkly pale ghost of a face stared at him. He rubbed at his masses of tissue, which were beginning to feel functional. 'Privyet - hello

Weird Idea-builder technique I was trying:

—-Marshal Morissey descends to the planet
-He's welcomed by General Milkor, who he promptly relieves. Milkor, to his surprise, treats this news with exuberance.

'Jesus Christ! Are you shitting me, Marine? Fuck Queen Mary and hail Uncle Joseph, you're serious!' He let out a raucous burst of hilarity. 'I've been stuck on this shithole for half a goddamn century, and you come here with the airbus like it's my fucking funeral? HA!' He laughed again, crying tears of disparaging joy. He stumbled out of the office, slapping Morissey on the back in hateful ecstasy. 'Up yours, motherfucker! I'm free!'

-He reviews the situation with Milkor's secretary, J-Bon - a snarky, cynical artificial intelligence.
-On his way to review the troops, J-Bon gets him up to speed - the Martian campaign is fucked. Morissey has six armies of troops that are being slaughtered by daily skirmishes, wave attacks, and gradual attrition. They're facing a detachment of 'Snakes' sent to take If the Wanderers manage to take Acidalia Planitia, now Position Bravo (Bastion,) it might be a finale to the war.
-Morissey review of his officers is that they're in shambles. Even the kings in the high courts have been fighting without end.

'Ten-hut! Marshal on deck!' A crowd of stunted, emotionless wrecks saluted in the courtyard, set against the setting Martian sun. Morissey swung over the rails instead of descending the catwalk; he walked among what he thought were mere wounded. He realized something less good: it was his new central command.

From the lowliest colonel to the most pretentious brigadier general, every officer with the wind at his back was, in some way, malformed. Morissey's heart sank as he began to perceive rank, badges of honor, purified in the fire of war. Men missed legs, arms - that major over there didn't have a stomach.

His words dead in his mouth, Morissey realized he would have to think of something in the next few seconds, at the expense of their morale.

"I understand what great sacrifices you've made,' he patronized. 'You've fought a good fight in my stead. Now the war begins - I promise you.'

They weakly 'ooh-rahed.'

'You have concerns, sir?' J-Bon muttered out of habit.

Morissey shrugged. 'I dunno. They're in shambles. I was expecting that - it's why they brought me. Shambles win wars all—

Gas shower for d-class thing:

Thirty men and women with sunken, brooding eyes stepped into a closed-off white chamber filled with gleaming showerheads and exquisite bathroom tiling.

A voice echoed over the intercom, "Your exit sanitation will commence in roughly half a minute. Before you go, we here at the Foundation would like to thank you for your valuable service over the course of the past month. Your actions form an indispensable element of our efforts to maintain a better, cleaner world for the global population. We wish you a safe journey, and better luck."

And all the lights went out

Angry wondertainment:

Site-77 was in total lockdown. Red alarms blared as a Containment team rushed down to the entrance, and were promptly vaporized. Turrets erupted from the walls, unloading thousands of high-caliber exploding rounds into the mysterious figure's sternum. He took them all and held out a hand, obliterating the way.

He stalked through the charred wreckage, the figure of icy fury. Up above, the Fox was getting ready to breach the roof; they were of no concern. He was where he needed to be.

He opened a door. A vast hall of secure-looking boxes sat in front of him; rows of metal dominated the landscape. His wrath carried him on wings of rage, and with his eyes he was able to see, and seethe.

A box flew to him, zigzagging between the columns until it stopped directly in front of his broiling complexion. He ripped it open, and all that hatred, all that murdeous sentiment, turned to tears.

Within the box lay two halves of a scarf.

El Cuchillo:


The call came just as Tom and Samra were waking up from a long night of child care. Pierce had stopped crying somewhere around 3, though the team had long since stopped counting hours at that point.

The Saturday sun shone in as Tom groped on the nighstand for nightstand for his phone. Three numbers beeped angrily at him as he fumbled out of bed, checking the address before subjecting the person on the other end to a stream of Corps-baked profanity.

'The Office.' He paused for a moment, and then slid out of the sheets, tapping his wife on the arm before heading into the kitchen for coffee.

"Wilson here," he answered in a sleepy voice, "When am I coming in?"

"Tonight," John's melodious tone echoed back at him, "We're roughing up some of the boys out West."


"Machos," John corrected him. "We want you to give 'em a good scare."

Wilson poured his coffee. Omlette this morning. And he'd break out the baby food for Pierce - spiked with cookie, as per usual. "What time?"

The sound of John fluttering through papers came through the speaker. "8. That's optimistic, so you should have the whole day."

"Great." Samra came into the room. She smiled at him as he poured her a cup. "I'll be there."

"See you soon."

Tom clicked off his cellphone, slinging it into his pocket.

Samra dunked a few wads of sugar into her cup. "Trouble at work?"

He grinned. "Always."

Agent Brand (failed) tale:

Their jet-black staff car sped down a neon blue highway. Agent Brand watched streetlights whip by as the automobile shot through the snow at a breakneck pace. He glanced over at his stoic, impetuous chauffeur. A long scar crept around his forehead like a snake.

'Are you trying to kill me?'

'No.' The Chauffeur responded in a detached, dreamy tone, unbefitting such an imposing figure. He hands lazily drifted along the wheel as they changed lanes.

Brand went back to his view of the icy cityscape. He hadn't done a job for their local Oberst since Delta's demise; normally, he'd be flattered by a specific request for his services, but now, all he felt was cold.

They eventually crawled up to a small, dilapidated apartment building. Brand had never quite understood why they insisted on such squalor - but then, it wasn't his place to ask.

He got out of the car, wrapping his trenchcoat around him as the blistering freeze crept into his bones. He reached the creaky vestibule a minute later, which was opened for him by a jacketed doorman, who ushered him into an elaborate stage production.

Brand was familiar with the way they framed their offices, but he hadn't quite seen one as extensive as this before. A prostitute smoked against a wall in the corner, clearly concealing a large gun within the folds of her dress. A smug-looking vagrant was pissing by the elevators; when he was done, he came on over to Brand and grinned, exhibiting his wide yellow teeth.

'We're glad you could make it.'

'So am I.' Brand shook his hand with gusto. 'Were you delivering the contract here?"

The Doorman - Brand belatedly noticed the man shared the Chauffeur's same perplexing mutilation - grasped his shoulder with a hand of iron. The hobo cocked its head in mock curiosity. 'Surely not, sir. I'm just a trod-upon vestige of the capitalist dictatorship. I have no contracts to give.'

Brand was beginning to tire of the charade. He was considering forcing a bullet through his oppressor's larynx when the hobo continued: 'However, head on up to the fifth floor. You might find what you seek there. Why don't you accompany him, Donny?'

The accusatory appendage left his body. He stretched his arm and walked up the stairs, escorted by his canine companion.

On the way up, the atmosphere began to distinctly loosen. The second floor sported a vast hydroponic garden, attended to by a crew of daintily clothed women and children. On the third floor, a small fleet of smartly dressed young people scribbled away in notebooks, taking heed of a blackshirted officer who was dictating the best way to mix nitroglycerin, charting his lesson on a wall-length chalkboard. The fourth floor was home to an army of empty bunks, each made to utter, compulsive perfection.

By the time they arrived on the fifth floor, Brand was beginning to realize that not only was the apartment larger than it looked, but it was in fact larger than it looked. The exterior façade couldn't have exceeded two-stories, and yet the stairs climbed ever-upward. Laughter and drill commands echoed from above, and Brand allowed himself a slight shiver at his spatial discombobulation.

'Welcome to Oberkommando der Atlantisch, Gehfahrlichmann.' The Doorman sniffed. 'Consider it the highest of honors.'

This particular block of apartments had been converted into what appeared to be a command center; a number of bald longcoats were standing in deep discussion around a wooden table, while radiomen sat at the window transmitting covert mumblings into their headsets.

One longcoat extracted itself from the thick navy mass, stalking on over to Brand and his guard with a hand outstretched.

'Gutentag, herr soldaten. I am the one they call Oberst Otto Friedrich, the head of this facility.' Brand shook it, noting his ascetic, bony appearance. He returned, 'Quite an impressive operation you've got going here.'

'It's a rather quaint post,' Otto chuckled, 'but I do pride myself on efficiency. Order, and efficiency. That's what keeps the world turning, you know.'

Brand nodded, feigning intrigue. Otto snickered to himself once more, 'But you were not asked here to discuss geopolitics.' He wrapped an arm around the assassin. 'Come. I will enlighten you to our plight. Then, you may leave.'

Together, they walked up to the table. Longcoats looked up from the wargame and gave the pair their attention.

'My family,' Otto declared, 'This is the fine young gentleman our associates saw fit to bless us with. His name is…' His face fell for a moment. 'I'm afraid I'm not sure.'

'You can call me Brand.'

'Brand,' Otto tested the strange syllables, rolling them around in his mouth. 'A good name. These,' he gestured to the circle of longcoats, 'are my brothers and sisters.'

They nodded at him.

'Sturmbannfuhrer, inform Herr Brand of his purpose here today.'

A stern-looking black woman at the end of the table drew out a newspaper. 'Jawohl, Oberst.' She flung it across the map, knocking over half a dozen hand-carved tanks and figurines. He picked it up, and inspected the front cover. A butchered host of teens dominated their front page; the blood

'A group of thugs targeted some promising young recruits in the Chicago area,' she continued. 'They go by some obscene name, and are led by a subversive undesirable named Judas Kriyot. We would like you to end him for this crime.'

Brand set down the periodical. 'I can dig it. What's the terms?'

'Ten thousand for every one of their heads you bring us - fifty for the mutt.'

He choked on his next words. 'Excuse me?'

'Optimal bodycount nets you around a hundred-and-twenty, by our estimates-'

'I haven't made fifty total in my last five jobs.'

The longcoats exchanged several glances. Otto chirped up politely, 'Is that a problem?'

Brand stuttered, 'Well - I mean - not that - uh…' His mind leapt between money and safety at a whim.

The Sturmbannfuhrer inclined her head. 'Would you like us to pay you less?'

'I mean, I don't - the point is, it's too hot.' He attempted to remain coherent, 'I'd be happy to accept your generosity if I bought that this was a gangbang revenge hit, but I don't. We don't cover top-tier anymore; I thought you knew that.'

An Asian longcoat on his left piped up, 'If retaliation is what you fear, Herr Gehfahrlichmann-'

'I fear deception.' Brand interrupted him. 'Meat I can handle. Tricks I can't.'

'Then you there is nothing to fear,' Otto soothed. 'Consider the profit an act of faith - guranteed excellence. Is that not reasonable?'

Brand thought it over for a minute.

'Judy, huh?'


lesbian_gengar: i think we should start slowing development on the misters
gay_copmp4: y
bluntfiend: We're steaming ahead as-is. What's up?
lesbian_gengar: i just think we should. The times square op, last week - pretty impressive, but
bones: You think we might've picked up some heat.
bluntfiend: Heat we can handle. Have handled.
lesbian_gengar: regardless
harmpit: no such thing as to cautious, rit blunt?
bluntfiend: I guess so.
ful_house: guys
gay_copmp4: the last few have zucked anyway
lesbian_gengar: just for a few weeks, while the media blitz dies down
bluntfiend: As long as we're in consensus. What's up, ful_house?
harmpit: who the fucks disagring with prrcation
ful_house: guys
someone's here
gay_cop.mp4: fucks who zuck - what
bones: What, another wild guinea pig in the chat?
ful_house: no, in the apartment
my fucking lights are gone
I think im getting robbed
lesbian_gengar: are you fucking joking right now?
bluntfiend: Are you joking?
ful_house: fucking no
oh jesus
guys pleas
gay_copmp4: talk to us bud, what's going on?
lesbian_gengar: do you want us to call the cops?
ful_house: pleae guys i dont want to 132
harmpit: ful, what do you mean
bluntfiend: where are your parents?
bones: ful, you're freaking us the fuck out, start talking
harmpit: it's been five minutes, i'm dialing jersey's precinct
lesbian_gengar: do it
if he's just fucking with us, i swear to god
ful_house: Run if you're wont.
gay_copmp4: what
ful_house has left (client exited)


Back in his condo, Brand counted heads.

'One… three… makes seven, and…' He had the 'evidence' collected in bags which he stashed in a carpet locker. Striving to make good on his price, Brand had kept busy over the past three weeks. Memories of the rush returned each time he glimpsed a specific tongue or nose.

The Milwaukee kid, the kid he caught at Toronto Pearson, the college girl, and the college girl at Montgomery College, and the guy dating her who worked as a T.A. at Montgomery College, and the guy working as a teacher at Montgomery -

'Who the fuck's Montgomery?' He muttered to himself.

The MIT kid, that one asshole in West End he had to cross the fucking Atlantic for, the coke wrangler, all present and accounted for. He felt proud of himself. It had been pretty exhausting, and he figured enough was enough. The ground troops were dead or dying, and high command would crack at the seams when he had Judy in the bag.

Of course, he already did, but -

A shadow at the window. He rushed past his king-sized bed and snatched his 1911 on the way. He cocked the gun and swooshed open the sliding door, becoming bathed in the moonlight. The glittering city winked at him as he checked around and underneath the balcony. He breathed. 'Too much sugar.'

A shadow slipped away away from the roof without a rustle.


Jude's eyes weighed heavy as he struggled to load the 12 gauge, fumbling over shells and clattering them against the sides of the entry chamber. He rechecked the tripwires covering the door and windows. He gave the group his nightly pep-talk - throwing in a little Winston Churchill in a morbid fit of humour - and unplugged his computer.

He adjusted the dummy's C4 rig and pulled the covers over it. He walked past the sealing symbols on his walls, pulled a plush chair over to the door, cracked open a Red Bull, pumped the shotgun, and settled in for a long night.

Five minutes later, he was fast asleep, his arms curled around the bust of a Spas and his energy drink spilled and forgotten about.

Hours passed. The night terrors came and went, ghostly shapes fading into and out of his suppressed consciousness.

Eventually, the awaited judgement came.

His eyes creaked open with the door. He heard the cold snip of a knife as it disarmed his shoddily composed bomb.

The vestibule was his stairway to hell, as he became engrossed in its healthy orange radiance. A figure entered into view - his coat drifting behind him, he raised a gun, and a machete.

He considered raising the Spas. It felt to the floor.

The interloper smirked. 'Sorry kid.' He wasn't. 'Nothing personal.'

And then, with a flash of lightning -

Agent Brand stared in utter shock at the fact that his arm, once gainfully employed by its body of origin, had fallen to the floor, gun and all.

Blood sprayed from the wound. 'Fuck!' Jude leapt out of his chair and dove behind it, dodging the stream of gore. He peeked out from his cover.


A crimson blade swept through Brand's neck, tearing it away. His body collapsed forward, revealing - nothing. Jude brushed the sleep out of his eyes - and the ooze - and swept up his shotgun, vaulting over the assassin's corpse. But the hallway was empty. He looked back at the headless Sicario and realized a third wound had materialized: a knife and crushed paper, stuck in his back.

He dropped the gun and drew it out, taking care to extract the note and prevent it from further erosion.

'Worries are over. Thanks innumerable. Contribute to great victory. You will not hear from us again.

-帝国軍 - 忍部隊'


Otto sat comfortably in his staff car. Today was a great day. The sun was shining, the new recruits were coming up on their first field evaluation and the latest reports from the Dangerous Man indicated that his operation was nearing completion. He reached up to the Chauffeur.

'Cut the drive short today, will you Krieg? It's beautiful, but I think this cold is bad for my bones.'

'Ja, Herr Friedrich.'

They circled back around and headed towards OKA. When they arrived, the Chauffeur drove over to the building's garage. He rolled down their long, bumpy ramp into their abandoned and decrepit site - cold on the outside, warm on the inside. Otto thought it was rather poetic.

The Chauffeur brought them to a perfect stop in the middle of the vast vacancy, more of a hall than an underground storage facility. They walked over to the elevators and got inside. Muzak serenaded their way up.

The doors opened, and they were privy to a butchery.

The camouflaged entrance lobby was filled with the bodies of dead security personnel, cut to ribbons by some unknown assailant. The bodies of Hauptmann Gleeson and his subordinate Alex, the Gestapo guards, had been mutilated beyond recognition; their defiled corpses lay strewn about,intestines protruding from an incoherent mess of flesh and blood.

The shadows folded, and a circle of armed men walked out of them to form a cordon around the elevator - arms crossed.

Otto did not blink, nor did he gape. He perceived out of the corner of his vision the Chauffeur's body falling back, perforated by a quick series of well-placed shurikens.

Two of his attackers, concealed in matching uniforms of deep blue cloth, dragged him out of the cell, onto his knees. In front of him towered a great figure; an opening in his garb enabled Otto to witness his smoldering, hate-caked eyes, thrumming with fury.

He ripped off his headwrap, revealing the harsh face of a young man, unburdened by age.

'Colonel Friedrich.' His voice was like ice breaking. Otto said nothing - something in his subconscious told him didactically that it was sheer terror overriding all of his ordinary sensibilities.

The man drew a sword from somewhere behind him - an officer's katana. Otto's subconscious found this curious, and somewhere inside him, he recognized the situation as possessed of a certain bizarre irony, though he couldn't place its origin in his state.

'The emperor sends his regards.'

The blade plunged through his chest, slitting open his heart and exited neatly through his back. It was gone a moment later, and he fell back, back onto the hardwood floor. His vision faded, and the cold steel of twelve blades continued to be rammed through his dying body, ensuring fatality, leaving no vein unopened, no organ unsullied. Only the original looked on in intense satisfaction.


bluntfiend: So.
anyone here
hetcopogg: I'm back.
gaycop.mp4: Me too.
bones: What kind of a question is that?
bluntfiend: Are you any of you high right now?
jockjamsvol6: What kind of question is that?
bluntfiend: Fuck it, it'll have to do.
harmpit: What's up?
bluntfiend: I think our troubles might be over.
gaycopmp4: That's what you said last time.
bluntfiend: Last time, I wasn't running on fumes and lining my apartment like a fucking war vet.
hetcopogg: But I was.
bones: Guys.
jockjamsvol6: Let him talk.
bluntfiend: I think a ninja saved my life last night.
jockjamsvol6: Remember what I said about letting him talk? Yeah, fuck that, you can go crucify him now.
hetcopogg: that's not fucking funny
gaycopmp4: it's a little funny
how much did you drop this morning, blunt
we won't judge
bluntfiend: He left me a note. Said we don't have to worry anymore.
bones: Do you buy it?
hetcopogg: wait, you buy this?
fuck man, I mean, we've known each other for a while, but he's clearly gone off it
bluntfiend: Maybe. I guess we'll just have to wait and see.
gaycopmp4: And what then? After that?
bluntfiend: We continue. Mourn the fallen, rebuild. Finish what we started.
jockjamsvol6: and what did we start?
bluntfiend: I'm not really sure anymore.

Thing I wrote at school after experiment with dopamine

Item #:

Object Class: keter

Special Containment Procedures: a gun to your head

Description: Love is a memetic drug, contained in specific cultures attuned to specific frequencies. These frequencies were founded initially based on Love's tendency to induce procreation, and later, as a safeguard against outside threat. Connection protects. Love fosters connection

During Love withdrawal, one can experience several symptoms.

Nausea, manic depression, suicidal thoughts, homicidal tendencies, and a proclivity to relapse.

Love is a memetic drug, contained in specific cultures attuned to specific frequencies. These frequencies were founded initially based on Love's tendency to induce procreation, and later, as a safeguard against outside threat. Connection protects. Love fosters connection.

It does this by altering our brain chemistry, the same as any other inhalant or amphetamine.

Love releases large quantities of dopamine into our bloodstream. This causes a pleasurable hysteria, which can lead to a state of elongated psychomania.

Like other drugs, building up a tolerance to love is not a cure. Even if one stops indulging in Love, successfully exiting withdrawal, it leaves lasting neural imprints, similar to the effects of alcohol on the liver and heroine on the nervous system.

Love induces multiple fascinating side-effects. These can include short term memory loss, delusions, DPD, and memetic mutation.

Everything's going to be okay. We're going to be okay.


This was found with his personal effects. I think it's

Greatest American Tradition:

The city of Chicago was under assault by an enormous hostile army. It flooded the streets and laid siege to the glittering skyscrapers as its inhabitants formed battle lines along the sidewalks, bracing their powerful shields.

Jude liked the rain. It didn't usually bother him, and today was no different. Regardless, a certain pit had been forming in his stomach for the past hour, and as the time marched closer to the one they had agreed on, it began to grow into a gaping maw.

As he sat in the corner diner, he drank his tea, awaiting the body that he needed.

He watched the door. Families, the elderly, loners - none of them fit the bill he had been given. By 4:00 he had become concerned that the whole thing was a steel trap, and considered bolting with his suitcase.

But at that moment, a figure walked through the door.

As he waved away the waiter and pressed impetuously toward his table, Jude was both struck and repelled by his features. Could it really be the guy? He was short, maybe five feet tall, and a beard was beginning to form on his wrinkling face. His greasy brown hair, combed long, was shot with unhealthy streaks of gray - and with a shock, Jude realized that he couldn't be older than 35. His green windbreaker was drenched and he slid into his seat with a detectable edge.

"Are you…" The man waved away his attempt at introductions.

"Names are dangerous," he muttered. "Yours, and mine. Just call me Sullivan."

"Sullivan. Right then." He took the suitcase and began to unfasten its straps. "You said in your message the case would be pro bono."


He took got out the photographs, and began checking them over. "Is that usual in your line of work?"

"No. What are those?"

Jude handed him the stack, which he began to look through. "Those are the guys. They targeted us a month ago."

Jude paused, unsure if he was being heard. "I'm listening," he said, deeply engrossed in the surveillance footage.

He continued, "Well, essentially, they're Nazis. Collection of black hats and wannabe wizards that started cramping our style about a half-year ago, after rising out of the primordial Chans for a stunt we pulled in Milaukee. First it was just vile garbage - hate crimes, public humiliation, death threats. Typical alt-right crap. But then things started escalating. You remember the Briarmere massacre?"

"The Muslims? I heard about it."

"That was them. After we started fortifying the enclaves to keep it from happening again - I guess they saw us as a threat."

Sullivan sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Which brings us to the present, I presume."

A moment of silence passed between them as he finished thumbing through the photographs. Then he set them down and looked Jude straight in the eye.

"Murder isn't a loose business."

"I know, and it's a corruption of everything we've worked for, but…" Jude spread his hands in helplessness. "This is an act of war. Many more are going to die if someone doesn't do something, and soon."

He shook his head. "I'm not talking about that. They're animals; I don't condemn your bloodlust. It's just - death will follow you. We're not leaving a paper trail, it'd be a clean spree, and I'm heading out of the country soon, but there will be an investigation. Most of these people probably have families, some of whom will hold funerals, more among them who will start witch hunts. Are you willing to take that heat?"

"I don't think we have any other option."

He pursed his lips. "Then it's done."

Jude felt his body awash in relief, despite himself. "I don't know how to thank you."

"It's murder. Don't."

"Why do you have to leave so soon? You could meet the team. They were pretty taken with you last night."

"I got made a few weeks back. Besides, this city is… poisonous, for me, now. I can't think. Too much going on."

"Whatever the case - we're in your debt."

Sullivan handed Jude his photographs, and extracted himself from the booth. He wished him a good night, and walked into the rain in silence.


One more time, unto the breach. He supposed it was fitting. Then he didn't; after all, those officers paid for the chance to destroy their fellow men.

He considered the facts as droplets pitter-pattered against his windshield. It'd been a week since his meeting with Bluntfiend. He had done some snooping, and it turned out that the kids were in town for a sit-down with some foreign associates. That made some things easy, and some more things hard. The spooks he didn't recognize, but they posed an intrinsic problem, regardless of their allegiance.

They were staying downtown in a suite at the Waldorf. His flight left in the morning; he'd have to hit them tonight. His kit was stashed in the trunk, but he'd drop back at Rostov's apartment for some specialty items.

The car radio read 5:34. His time was running out.


"Honestly, what do you think Herr Friedrich sees in them?" The agent grumbled in German to his partner. They walked into a golden, comfortable looking lobby, complete with couches, desk lamps, and a water feature. "The murder of some submenschen - such wanton destruction is a dime a dozen, these days."

His companion nodded assent, a thick trenchcoat muffling his voice. The receptionist had them cleared with the Americans, and they strolled over to the elevators. The agent pushed the ↑ button, and looked up at the clock: 10:34.

"It's a wonder they even managed to get his attention," he went on. "I can't remember the last time he used an office computer. It's like we're completely analog, now."

The doors opened, and they stepped inside.

The agent looked over his partner in curiosity. "Hans, you've been awfully quiet this evening. Are you troubled? If you are upset about Katharine leaving you, be content; at least you met a woman. Me, I haven't interacted with the opposite gender since the war. All those surgeries - it takes quite a toll, you know. Heh, you know, one time I-"

The doors closed, and the agent's partner smashed into his solar plexus with an elbow shot. As he doubled over in pain, he took hold of the man's neck and jerked it out of its socket. The man from OBSKURA collapsed, motionless.


The suite was decked out with an immense number of amenities. The twelve young men waited patiently for their distinguished guests to arrive on the circle of couches - all except for one.

"George, will you sit the fuck down?" Their leader, a blonde man in a suit, demanded.

George, a younger boy in a black jacket, paced around the accommodations, ignoring the sympathetic looks he was receiving. "I just don't feel good about this, man."

"It took months of work and it paid off. Besides, we're clean. If they don't seem legit, Sam will give them the test, and if we're still not satisfied, we'll send them out."

"Not that. Well, I mean - yeah, kind of that, but even if they're for real, they're Nazis, man!"

The leader put massaged the bridge of his nose. "We've been over this George: so are we."

"But these guys were really hardcore, man! They're not like the boys in grey - none of them spoke German."

"It's a different time, George. They've been expanding. And they assured us the negotiators would be less offensive, remember? Just sit the fuck down, and have a drink. We're making good tonight."

George crossed his arms, and went to sit down in a cushy armchair. Then, the doorbell rang.

The group exchanged nervous looks with one another.

The leader sighed, exasperated. "You're all useless. Fine, I'll get it."

He walked over the door, peeking through the eye-hole. Satisfied with the heavily armored figure he saw, he opened it up.

"Welcome to our-" A sudden spurt of blood erupted from his abdomen. The silenced pistol raised to level with his head, and fired.

He grabbed the corpse as it fell, using it as a shield. Curses were being shouted all over the room, and gunfire started peppering the boy's body.

He cleared the room methodically - a Mozambique here, a kneecap there. He slowly pressed inward, keeping the cadaver moving as his cover.

Somebody broke out an assault rifle, and soon the boy's expensive party-wear was being shredded. He dropped it and dove behind a couch's arm for cover.

"You motherfucker!" He heard shouting. "You pasty, contemptuous, illegitimate bi-"

The assault rifle's owner ate a bullet, blowing a bloody stain onto the wall behind him, and it was over.


Jude received a post-card in the mail two weeks after the Chicago Sun-times had reported the "GRISLY ANTIFA MURDERS AT WALDORF ASTORIA." A picture of Big Ben, marked with no return address, came to his door with a small message scrawled in ink.


He cracked a smile for the first time in weeks.

Agent Dust's first tale:


He awoke in the bombed-out hospital, still groggy from the sedative. Stacks of meat wearing guns and tactical armor stood beside him, their faces obscured by thick wads of fabric. His hands were untied. The desk in front of him was as he had seen it last. Its occupant was suited, sallow, and smiling.

"Welcome back, agent."


"Your mission was a resounding success. My contacts are pleased."

"I murdered thirty-seven innocent people."

"Does that bother you?"


"In any case, the administration considers such casualties to be acceptable. We are at war; you are with us. Your next target is the president of Kugal, a petty dictatorship on the horn of Africa. You will remove him how you see fit."

"And then you get me home."

"Good things come to those who wait."

He felt his body melt as a syringe entered his neck.



Several decades earlier

His first night in the blood pit.

A friend guided him through the warehouse. Schoolchildren and ruffians loitered, smoking and muttering to one another. It was a cesspool - but the throbbing of his black eye urged him forward.

They reached the manager's office, and were let in by a squat, wrinkly boy with a dark pistol grip emerging from his trousers. Two older boys, twins, were sharing a bottle of pale liquor as they discussed something in the hushed tones of a foreign language.

His ears were still ringing as his friend recounted the beating he had given to the Italians, even as he had been left for dead. The pair then proceeded to poke and prod at his musculature. They asked him questions - had he ever killed a man? Yes. When? Years ago. Who, and why? He came up behind his father as his mother begged for mercy.

Often when the case workers ran upon that part, they would turn a distinct shade of green. But the twins merely nodded, and told the squat boy to close the door.

"What did you feel?"

He said what he always said. "Regret."

One of the twins chuckled, and spoke a phrase in Russian. "You do not lie well."

"I've never been good at it."

He nodded again. "That is good. It means you are still human."

"Are you?"

They ignored the question. "What did you feel?"

He didn't need to think.




Present day

He woke up in a car.

A cluster of people maneuvered around his roadblock as his eyes struggled to adjust to the morning light. His surroundings were excessively claustrophobic; a dark, lengthy leather bag sat in the backseat. He'd see what was in it once he found a hotel.

He exited the sedan, opening himself to a cacophony of shouting and bicycle bells. Across the crowded plaza was a ramshackle collection of huts, guarded by a pack of begging children and a sweaty man relaxing with his Kalashnikov - a slum. Good enough, though he'd have trouble finding his way back to the vehicle.

He made his way into the sprawl, wandering past feral dogs, gang members, and prostitutes innumerable. After half an hour of searching, he found himself an isolated nook, something of a deserted religious site. A mound of gears, discarded software drivers, and assorted tools lay at the center of a field of unlit candles.

He cleared himself a space near the pile, unzipped the bag, and extracted its contents: his gun, a stack of currency, building plans, an iPhone, and field rations. It also yielded a pack of cigarettes and a zippo; he tossed the former onto the mechanical mountain and kept the lighter.

He checked his watch. Three hours of daylight left, and not a minute to waste. So he got to reading.


It was bad.

Among the plans he had received were a series of articles and documents detailing the political situation in Kugal. He had read them all, and began to feel slightly overwhelmed.

The most prominent national language was a local iteration of Amharic, which he couldn't speak, understand, or write. The area surrounding the presidential palace was cordoned off by a contingent of soldiers armed with Western guns and trained by Western officers. The President himself rarely left his personal quarters, delegating administrative matters to his Western-educated prime minister. Whenever he did, he was guarded by a five-man secret service team armed with gut and machine guns. The palace was a walled compound built three centuries prior to the fact, surveyed by a crack cadre of counter-snipers.

He ran a hand through his hair. There was no version of this that did not end without him dead, or a large portion of the government's staff taking his place in hell.

He would do it. About that, there was no question. A man died in his home, and home was where he made his deathbed.

Who had said that?

He glanced over at his rifle.



One decade earlier

"Your weapon is your life," the Quartermaster insisted. "You hear me? You will clean it, train with it, and sleep with it. It is your closest companion. There must be nothing on this Earth comparable to your level of base intimacy."

"I understand."

"Do you want to kill for a living, son?"

"It's what I'm good at."

He sighed. "That's not reason enough. That is never reason enough. You want to murder? You want to take lives?"

"I've been doing it for a decade."

"That shitshow Pavlov's boys ran? Out in the field, kid, you're not getting paid my upfront to take down some punk with a goth complex and then spending it all getting fucked up with your buddies. Buddies are the antithesis of the occupation. You sort out filth for filth, on your lonesome; that's the way it goes. You wanna live a life? You're in the wrong business."

"I don't want to live my life."

"Then what the fuck are you in my face for?"


His face scrunched up in regret. "Look kid, I'm sorry. The Russians - they're not easy partners. I've seen so many of you kids come through here, bright as day, and get wasted by some banger with a vendetta. It's just, you're in this deep, and you don't got any other options, right?"


He hesitated.

"Then let's get started."


Present day

A security team rushed the president down a gilded hallway.

"How far have they gotten?" He demanded on the way. "Is it the communists?

"We don't know who it is, sir. But they've breached the outer perimeter and are making their way further into the building."

They reached the panic room, discreetly camouflaged behind a 19th century original by Cristobal Rojas. His bodyguard entered a code into its keypad, and they ushered him in as explosions racked the exterior corridor.

The three-inch steel door closed behind him as another explosion racked the building. They were shrouded in darkness. One of the soldiers found a switch, illuminating the room with a series of blue screens. All of them displayed static.

Gunshots and screaming were heard as the president's men overturned a table and took up positions around the vault entrance. They leveled their Uzi submachine guns at the door, while their liegelord cowered behind his chief of security.

"I don't understand," he whispered, "I gave them what they wanted."

The lights flickered out, and the door blew open.


The sedan needed gas. As he pulled up to a rest stop alongside an empty highway, an older attendant drew up to his window, and the blood drained from his face.

Maybe he spoke Arabic. "I'd like a full tank. And somewhere to clean up."

"I will take care of it. There is a washroom upstairs."

"What is my charge?"

"None for you, friend."

"Nevertheless, I would pay."

The attendant looked around, as though he were complying with some illicit transaction. "Twenty dollars."

He handed him the stack of money. "Keep the change."

His eyes widened. "Might you be the messiah?"

"If anything, I am the devil."

He got out of the car and stalked towards the building. Once he got into the upstairs bathroom, he went to inspect his face in a mirror, and was surprised to meet with what appeared to be an alien.

Red-faced and covered in chalk, it observed him through a porthole in the wall. It put a hand on its chin, raised its eyebrows, and he realized that the monster he inspected was himself.

After washing the gore and ash from his face, he returned to the station, thanked the attendant, and drove for miles. When he eventually reached empty grasslands, he shut the car off and browsed through the cellphone they gave him, eventually finding a lone number hidden among the contacts. He dialed it and waited.

Someone picked up. "We are picking up Dust. Be this news, accident, or injury?"


"Of what?"

"I need to be picked up from work."

"Then come to these coordinates."

The operator rattled off a set of meaningless numbers.

"We'll pick you up at 8."


The stars twinkled overhead and the moon had risen in the sky by the time the wagon rolled up. A white, unmarked pickup truck flattened the brush as it came to face the sedan. Three men jumped out of the back and made their way over to his seat, weapons drawn. The leader, a massive man sporting a balaclava motioned for him to roll down his window.


He opened the door with his hands up, only to be pushed onto his knees.

"You know the drill."

He closed his eyes as the syringe granted him his escape.



"What's the status of your American asset?"

"His mission in the Horn went well. In the power vacuum we'll be able to consolidate our hold on the mines and oil fields and recruit directly from the military. Hassan was a good associate, but he was too paranoid. We're better off rid of him."

"Is he ready for deployment against Olympiad?"

"Possibly. He's certainly Jean's best acquisition thus far."

"And he's already done good work for us."

"Then notify his cell, and make preparations."



The hospital again.

The suit's smile stretched further as his eyes opened.

"Welcome back, agent."


"Tell me: how are you feeling?"

He felt like he could vomit. "Fine," he said, meeting the creature's odious gaze. "That's good," he managed to grin wider at the anticipation of delivering his bad news, "We have stratagems to discuss, operations to plan - the crux of your purpose is upon us."

"I'm glad to hear it." He wanted to scream.

"Good." He ignored the obvious edge in his voice as he continued, "The activities that we have been preparing for you up until this point have merely been odd jobs when compared with what is to come. You will be going to Cairo next; there, you are going to eliminate one of our most stringent competitors."

"Fine. Who is it?"

"A man of import. He will be engaged in operations of his own; it is essential that you do not allow his plans to come to fruition."

"It'll be done."

His bare teeth gleamed. "Pleasantly brief, as always. Perhaps we will see each other again."

The waking world faded out, in, and out again. The syringe left his body, and he returned to the quieter world of dreams.


Three years ago

The one who would temper his sword in the boiling blood of a thousand Insurgents, the man who slaughtered thirty scores of murderous youths, climbing to his apex atop a mountain of pulverized corpses, the beast set upon the enemies of Chaos, who would turn to face the unspeakable darkness and seek to ravage the atrocity that offended him - for he was the one who they called 'Dust' - sat in an internet cafe drinking coffee.

Britain was just about on the verge of breaking away from the European Union, a fact that greatly intrigued him. As an American expatriate forced out of his niche by a federal manhunt, he tended to become absorbed in matters affecting his new place of business. He was deeply engrossed in an article about the aforementioned vote when he was approached by a tall, thin white man in a woolen button-coat.

"Edward Sullivan?" He looked up from the paper in relative alarm.

"That is a name I once used."

The man grinned - a pained, disconcerting thing which highlighted a number of yellow teeth. "You're not from around here. Very homesick?"

He raised his eyebrow. "Very."

The man smiled wider. "I have a proposition for you."

Failed gamers thing:

MCFOfficial has joined
Winston: You accepted our invitation.
MCFOfficial Well, I didn't. But my superiors believe what you offer is too good to pass up.
BBrother: fuck yeah it is
BBrother: spent three weeks programming the shit out of this guy
MCFOfficial: Regardless, they still aren't very comfortable dealing with a power they know next to nothing about.
Winston: All you need to know is we want the same thing.
MCFOfficial: Which is?
BBrother: helping the tousands of adrift gaijin you fuck
Goldstein: you did get the proto we sent, right
Julia: quiet
Julia: man deserves an explanation at least, doesnt he blunt
Obrien: jesus jul
Julia: what
Obrien: fucking codenames, man
Winston: Quiet.
Parson: hes right tho
Winston: Fine.
Winston: The truth is, we've been losing people recently.
Winston: Facilities in Tucson, Denver, Seattle-
Winston: Smoked.
MCFOfficial: I'm sorry.
Winston: The cloak and dagger is just precautionary.
Winston: So if you don't mind, I'd like to get back on track.
MCFOfficial: Very well. What do you have for me?
Winston: Brother.
BBrother: righto
BBrother: you remember the plans and mockup that Gold sent you, right
MCFOfficial: Yes. 'Heavenly Virtue' I believe it was called.
BBrother: ye
BBrother: weve been cooking up some pretty badass shit for his alting matrix
BBrother: doubled the compartment cap since last time
Goldstein: his effective range of spatial reference points has also been significantly expanded in the mark 2
BBrother: that and Syme hooked up his defense systems a few weeks back.
Winston: Say 'hi' Syme.
Syme: hi
Winston: Syme's new.
MCFOfficial: What's the nature of his countermeasures?
Syme: it's all nonlethals. Wrist-bound tranquilizers, knockout pheromones, the works. If you're worried about hitting power, he's got some backup materiel, but 1 told me you folks were touchy about that sort of stuff.
MCFOfficial: As long as you don't mind how we prune the final product, more is better.
Syme: then you're solid on that end.
MCFOfficial: How is he coming along? As a… him?
Winston: You're talking about the cerebral component?
MCFOfficial: That, yes.
Julia: this is my bit, right
Winston: Take it away.
Julia: kay, so remember how we told you we were gonna end up with a fully independent operator
MCFOfficial: Yes.
Julia: yeh, see me an Parson kinda decided against that
MCFOfficial: I'm glad.
Julia: we figured wait wat
Parson: what she said
MCFOfficial: It'll be easier to palate for other potential benefactors. We wouldn't want them to think we'd started playing god, or some such nonsense.
BBrother: are you…not
MCFOfficial: Of course we are. Just keeping up appearances.
Parson: anyway, we figured a less fucky module would work better than a war crime waiting to happen
Parson: still worked in a couple of failsafes in case it attains sentience fr some reason
Parson: nothing to worry about on that end
Parson: just be aware that it wont do anything without a key phrase
MCFOfficial: And how will we know what to say?
Julia: Syme
Syme: why do i have to tell him
BBrother: because you got the asshole
Syme: embedded in his command list is a one off viable: 'eastern supplicant.' you say that, and he'll rattle off his speech checks to you.
Julia: after that your on your own
MCFOfficial: Why?
BBrother: were giving you a fucking rescue wizard. excuse us if were to causus for you
Winston: What Brother is trying to articulate is that we've spent a good deal of time and effort putting this project together for you guys. We'd be loathe to see it fall into another organization's potentially malicious hands.
Winston: Julia, give him the delivery details.
Julia: does he have any closing comments?
MCFOfficial: It's absolutely understandable. The Foundation uses a variety of artifacts just like your own in our operations, but more than a few of them could do a substantial amount of harm if utilized improperly.
Winston: Julia.
Julia: He'll be waiting for you in an abandoned warehouse off 52nd street, NYC. do you guys have thermsat?
MCFOfficial: We have someone who does.
Julia: if you cant find him, that's the ticket.
MCFOfficial: When will it be ready?
Julia: today
MCFOfficial: Then on behalf of the Manna Charitable Foundation, I thank you for your generosity. In the weeks to come, scores of men, women, and children will be in your debt. You're all a credit to the world we live in.
Winston: Happy to help, man. Keep the faith.
Winston has logged out
BBrother has logged out
Goldstein has logged out
Julia has logged out
Parson has logged out
Obrien has logged out
Syme has logged out
MCFOfficial has logged out


"Somebody get PHYSICS on the line. Three traces means three bodies, and I want three bodies by morning; preferably alive, but cadavers will do nicely if it can't be helped. And get Strike converging on that parathreat. We'll bring it back for R&D, see what we're up against the next go around."


They had spent so long on such a good thing. So much time and money, dedicated to people. He felt like a hero.

The deal concluded at 7, and he was exhausted.

He said goodnight to his family, shut the door to his room, flipped off the light, and fell into bed.

The explosion came from downstairs. Shots rang out - shouting - and a hulk of tactical vest and bandoliers threw him against the floor, jabbing a syringe the size of his arm into the latter.


She was in a bit of a daze when it was all done, which of course had demanded coffee. She sipped as lights in the apartment building across from her window began to wink away.

There was still work to do, though not nearly as much as before. He had taken work, lots of it, and a good deal of inspiration, but now the world would know: borders, politicians, even armies could not stop the wealth from spreading.

Lady Liberty watched the boots crack her skull as they came in from the window.


Motors running. Men shouting. Feet running up stairs.

A low whine - the television flickered off.

He propelled himself off the couch and sprinted clumsily toward The Cabinet

He heard a door fall off its hinges, felt jackboots thunder down the hall, winced as the cupboard became suddenly illuminated.

"You will turn slowly! Now!"

He swiveled on one foot, holding the stuffed gorilla. A light began to envelop him. "Fascist fu-"

State police would discover the body of a youth, his chest perforated, three hours later. They carried him down the Lincoln Memorial's footsteps just as the sun began to rise.


They were briefed en route. A thick, authoritative voice rang through each of their headsets as the van tumbled along.

As they filed out, into a drab, unlit forest of box towers, a man stood silent vigil at the center of the room.

He shivered.


From: scElwood
To: basecomm
Asset secured.


"What the fuck is going on?"

"I don't know! The kid just started screaming!"

"Didn't you hit him with the cocktail?"

"Of course I did! He should be a vegetable!"

"We're at 8,500 feet! Get this under control now!"



Incident Report - Global Occult Coalition - Pasadena Division
Perpetrator(s): LTE-3313-Gamer
Casualties: 8
Summary: At 1900, several hours following the initiation of Operation Broken Seal, Strike team 2345 conducted a raid on the residence of LTE-3313-Gamer, a 17-year old type blue and key associate of "Gamers Against Weed." During the flight back to Pasadena, the Strike team's aircraft registered turbulence at 2345 hours, and its signal cut out entirely minutes later. Simultaneously, the area in which the group disappeared experienced a high influx of gamma radiation, picked up on a number of near-orbit observation satellites. The ultimate fate of the team and their vehicle is unknown; they are presumed KIA, as with the pilot and threat entity that they were transporting. Further investigation into the matter has been deemed unnecessary by base command.


Mark I Autonomous Combat Entity (ACE)



A recent development out of PTOLEMY, ACE was developed in the wake of Operation Broken Seal, a covert action with the objective of exterminating the parathreat generator 'Gamers Against Weed.' While the Operation's mission was ultimately unsuccessful, tangential technology recovered after the fact became essential to the project's completion. Similar to earlier esoteric developments such as the UHEC and VERITAS, the full specifications of the system have not yet been disclosed. Certainties regarding it are limited to its intimate relationship with an L5-LTE originating with "Gamers Against Weed" and the secondary objective of Broken Seal.


The Mark I is a bipedal unit capable of engaging and dispatching a wide variety of paranormal threats on its volition. Its skeleton and outer epidermis are composed of an adaptive and highly durable nanopolymer. At the base of the skull is an experimental cerebral implant that monitors and disrupt local Hume levels, enabling the operator to manipulate reality in a limited capacity. The unit is managed by an onboard AI system built with the express purpose of obeying all direct orders from its assigned Strike handler.

All other information regarding this technology has been classified level Q by High Command.

Red suit:

Mark III Symbiotic Combat Harness (Red Suit)



The Zaius-Alpine Disasters of 2016 resulted in a widespread demonic invasion of northern Italy, killing thousands before Strike was able to contain the incident. The Coalition had been operating facilities there which had begun probing the lower regions of Hell for any useful technology that could give it an edge in the paranormal arms race, and the chance nature of the event called up discussions of what exactly might happen should something similar occur in a densely populated area. Thenceforth, PTOLEMY section chief Pedro Kolches ordered the construction of a new combat system capable of defending more efficiently against such a threat.


The Mark III is insulated and provides comprehensive shielding of the body's extremities. It feeds the wearer recycled air, and possesses a hardened HTC exterior strengthened by a coating of carbon nanotubes. The suit is powered primarily using a miniature fusion generator, but more prominent is its ability to feed on the semi-corporeal field of charged antiparticles produced locally by a demonic horde, enhancing the wearer's physical attributes by converting [LEVEL-Q INFORMATION CENSORED] a fine nutrient paste delivered directly into the bloodstream. This substance induces a dramatic inflation of muscle mass, stimulates the body's pleasure centers, and improves reaction time.

Each Mark III suit is equipped with an integrated Mark IV Conflagratory Field Incisor, to be used at the operator's discretion.

The device's primary disadvantage is that against more mundane entities it's a largely ineffective hindrance which only acts to slow the operator down with useless bulk. Hence, it is only deployed in instances where demonic presence is both massive, and assured.

I've worked with a Red operator only once in my tenure, and when we were done I never wanted to again. He waded into Kate like it got him off, and I'm not convinced it didn't. When it was all done we had to clean up the mess he left behind, packing what was intact into mass graves, and burning what wasn't. I reckon if you aren't climbing into one, the wisest thing to do would be stay well out of its way. Should you earn the privilege, enjoy it, but keep one thing in mind: immortal and unstoppable it may make you feel, you're nothing but a walking carcass need you go up against anything unaccounted for. Red isn't a ticket to start slacking off on fitness or the range; if anything, it's a challenge to build yourself.
Agent "Madrigal."
Strike Team "Noble Phantom."

Dumb love thing:

"What do you mean it doesn't count?!"

"I mean it doesn't count." Proctor sighed. "Paulie, you can't just go around locking up everybody you get a crush on."

"Say that again and I'll slit your throat."

Proctor went over to his filing cabinet and began sifting through employee applications. "You haven't done that since Budapest."

"And I'm ready for more! Especially now."

"You cried for a week."

"Fuck you!"

He sat back in his chair, glowering. "Then admit me."


"You know I'm insane! You've known it since University! Admit me!"


"Then do something!"

"I am!" He took out a folder and threw it at him. It smacked him in the forehead and fell into his lap.

He took it up. "What's this?"

Proctor walked up to his liquor cabinet, retrieving two glasses. "What do you think? What does it say?"

Paulie inspected the title - in big, bold letters: "LYDIA KENDRICK."

He looked up. "I'm going to shoot you for this."

"Not until after we drink." He doled out a murky substance from a decanter and walked back over to his desk. "Go on; I owe you. Budapest, remember?"

Paulie opened the file and immediately winced in discomfort.

Proctor took a drink and gestured towards his scrunched up scowl. "That," he grunted. "What is that?"

"Nothing," he muttered, and hastily closed it.

"So? Any luck?"

Paulie tried to conjure up the researcher's face in his brain. He failed.

"No dice."

"And yet-" Proctor plunked down his glass, snatched the folder out of his hands, took a good look at the photo within, chucked it onto the tabletop, and spread his arms. "I remain sullied."

"But you're the psychic. You should be able to know exactly what's going on inside my head."


"Then you know this fits the profile of a cognitohazard!"

Proctor rested his hands behind his head. "All the blockage I can sense in there is naturally introduced and decidedly mundane. Other neural centers, however, seem to be quite active, and running out of steam."

"Excuse me?"

He took another drink. "I think you're in love. And you've been in love for a while, but you've been too much of a pussy to do anything about it."

Paulie glowered at him. The scars on his hands bulged, and a deep flush had entered his cheek.

He swept a hand through the air. "Oh, for god's sake man, it happens to everyone! Accountants, dogs, mass murderers…"

"Foundation agents?" he growled.

"Truly." He drank. "And researchers, and doctors, and overseers. Paulie, we contain the unrighteous, and we seal away the heretic, but nobody ever said we stopped being human."

The agent stood up a bit too quickly. "You still haven't answered why it's acting like this."

Proctor meandered over to the shelf of records on his wall. He swished around the liquid in his cup and downed the rest. "It's curious, I'll admit."

"Losing total control over your ability to recall a person's physical appearance? I'd say that's a little less curious, and a little more dangerous as fuck."

"Have any of her co-workers expressed this concern?"

The look on his face gave him all the answer he needed. "Then you have nothing to worry about. Perhaps it's an isolated anomaly. Or a very specific meme, the nature of which we'll never understand. Regardless, it's not very concerning."

"Then my work here is finished." He kicked in his chair and stalked over to the door.

"Oh Paulie?" He stopped short of the handle.

"How are those late-night scouting missions coming along?"

A few seconds passed.

And then he left the room, banging it shut behind him.


Cast of characters:

Insurgent 1 (Joe) - Got a big pump action shotgun. Shoulder wound.

Insurgent 2 (Randy) - Bleeds out in the opening minutes from multiple gunshot wounds.

Bartender (Hug) - Runs the bar. May have a Marshall connection.

The Courier (William) - Comes right after the the bandito has been put in the back and Joe speaks of a madman. Carrying a large canvas bag. Suspicion is shot at him - Joe and Randy were sniped at.

The Killer (Samael) - Comes after the Courier has been overpowered (bartender couldn't speak for him - maintain cover.) Shows up and blows a hole through Joe's head. Asks for a drink and gets all his amnestics ready. Gets news that there's a Marshal item running through there and he cordons it off to start searching. Courier hid his canvas bag in the loo, bartender took it. Loaded it into a secret compartment.

Killer begins to interrogate group one at a time. Gets through bartender, moves to intellectual couple. Eventually gets to Courier, who faux-breaks - worked through his bindings. Bartender slipped him a pocket knife when they were tying him up before. We saw the same pocket knife as in the beginning Reveals he's a marshall agent. Says more are coming, a whole fireteam to move the cargo.

The Recovery team rides up to the bar Killer sees it coming, Courier makes a move. While they're occupied, bartender gets to Joe's gun, Killer takes courier hostage, kills them both. Then he kills everyone else in the room. Unloads compartment. Grabs a backpack. Leaves. Closes door behind him.

Banker - From local area. Retreats to bar to drown his sorrows.

Couple (traveling intellectuals - librarian, math teacher, from east coast) - Pacifistic. Discuss the insurgency in Russia. First to join the group hysteria.

Psychologist - Visiting a patient. Consoles banker. Attempts to initially be voice of reason. When attacked, by facts that are piercing if don't quite make sense, join in the cacophony.


place full of sad, contradictory people gets destroyed by two competing bureaucracies.

The killer is an amoral agent. he isn't meant to be a critique of the foundation's use of armed, exceptionally violent people out in public waiting for something to happen. he is, however, representative of the foundation's ethos in regards to other people. the foundation, in this context, is nothing more than a bizarre state organization that disregards human lives in order to maintain the status quo. thusly the killer is less of a character and more of a force of nature, very obviously like anton chigurh in the coen brothers film no country for old men.

the barkeep is kind of the protagonist. it's more of an ensemble cast but the events as they occur are usually from the barkeep's perspective. this is because he is the intermediary; he is a perfect mold of both the courier and the killer, an effective operator working for marshall who puts everything behind him for the sake of the mission. and in the end he gets what he wants.


The Hold-Up at the Sanguine Inn

Shot to shot:

Bartender Hug is watching the clock as he smokes a cigarette and the bar happens around him. He multitasks as

CHARACTER REVIEW<the Banker sits over an empty glass of scotch, the psychologist reads Red Alert with some Bourbon in the corner, and the couple have a glass of wine in the single filled table, whispering. Hug asks if the Banker would like any more, and the Banker politely refuses. He appears to be thinking about something, which is odd, as the banker would often only come to down glass after glass until he passed out and Hug would take him home.

Hug says if he doesn't need anything else, he'll be going to lunch. Nobody acknowledges this except the Banker, who asks him what he's having. Before he gets a chance to answer, the door slams open. The first insurgent has a large shotgun in one hand and is supporting Randy in the other. Hug notices their wounds, but nobody says anything as Joe hauls him inside. 'Bolt the door' groans Randy and Joe does so. Everyone kind of just watches as Joe knocks over some chairs and gets him on two tables. He begins to apply medical treatment as Hug aims his double barrel at him. Joe begins pleading for help as he works, asking for alcohol and water, there is a madman coming after… sees the gun barrel aimed at him and slowly raises his hands.

Please, he doesn't want to hurt anyone, his friend is grievously injured, there is a murderer coming to kill them. He begins to lapse into Spanish. He's going to die without treatment. Hug can see that just fine, and if he'll stay quiet and answer when he says he might just not bleed to death, what's the shotgun for. Joe grabbed it as they were running, we just got into our car, we didn't have a good look at him and he could be coming through that door as we speak. I won't be having any arms in the hands of any untrustworthy individuals in my bar - now if I ask this man here to go over there and take that from you, for now, are you gonna do anything stupid?

No, Joe says, please.

Hug nods and the banker goes over and collects the gun, kind of manhandling it. Bring it here, he says, and he lays it on the countertop. Hug gives him the shotgun and tells him dial 911 while he gets him prepped. Joe shouts no, no, please, you cannot do that. Sir, your friend is bleeding out on my tables due to a series of what look like gunshot wounds. I might be able to help him, but all I've got here is a first aid kit. And alcohol! Please, you can stitch him up. I've got - he opens a pouch - I've got tools. Please, you cannot call the police. We did not do anything wrong. But we need to stop the bleeding. My car is still running, if we just clean him up, we'll be out of your hair soon. Please. Hug tells him to keep his hand on the phone, nobody leaves until they do, and to get him into the back room.


The side characters convene in the lounge. Banker's set aside the shotgun and swigs scotch as the librarian says they've got to turn him into the authorities. he barges in here shotgun in hand, his friend's perforated as it is, you're telling me they're not caught up in something illicit. the psychologist says it smells funny to him, but what are we to do? i'll tell you what we'll do, you, you get the sheriff on that phone, he sends a couple of guys down here and he's not our problem anymore. Why don't we just leave Henry, ain't nobody leaving until we get say-so from hug. Hug? You mean that fuckin' bartender? You got the gun! Look I say we either ditch - I got my car out front, you guys can tag along, or you pick up that phone and get some goddamn help down here. You don't know him like I do. Whatever he's doing, he's gonna take care of us. Man this is insane. You're gonna shoot us, blow our brains out if we try and leave, is that it. I ain't ever used this thing before. But I'll be damn sure to try. Psychologist throughout all this is very quiet. He's older and silent, just kinda sippin his bourbon. Woman goes up, sir what do you make of all this. Me, I'm en route back up north. You see fit to put our lives in these characters, who am I to have an opinion.

The door to the back room creaks open and Hug, hands bathed in blood moves with a purpose. Gun, he asks and the banker hands it to him. Hug, he asks as he goes to the sink to wash his hands. What happened. What do I do with these people. The librarian is silent through all this. He pours himself a drink. The man is dead, he says, we got some of the lead out but, too many vital organs. The banker scrunches his face up, that's awful he says. Are we gonna call the coroner. Hug downs the drink. The other one, Joe - still in there. Won't leave his side. Does he blame you, the banker asks and Hug pours himself another drink. Then, thinking, he gets another glass from the rack and sets it on the bartop, then ducks beneath it, digging through some cupboards. He returns and cracks open a very old bottle of scotch and passes it to the banker. He thinks he was followed. By who the banker asks, won't say. Hug downs more scotch. Says they couldn't get a good look at the shooter. A sniper? Camouflaged.

Sir, the librarian speaks up, you say that there is a dead man in that back room, and that the man who killed him, is coming here?


The librarian edges up to the bar, well, in that case, don't you think we should saddle up the hell out of here? Call someone? Anything? Before he has a chance to answer, the door to the saloon rattles.

Everyone turns to it. It rattles again. Hug grabs hold of the banker, and tells him to hide everyone in the back, and to get Joe. The Banker leads the Librarian and his wife, and along the way he hisses towards the psychologist to come. The latter's eyes flare with a look of recognition and there's a *screech* as his moves from his stool and joins the group as they head into the back room. Hug grabs the double barrel and begins to walk towards the door. It rattles again. He walks slowly, his heart thumping in his chest. He hears a growl behind him. He points at the gun, then slowly moves his finger to the door. Joe nods and leaps over the bartop and grabs his pump-action, ducking below the counter.

The door knocks another time, and Hug turns back to it. He grasps the doorknob, his palms sweaty, and on impulse he throws

Sputnik's return

Item #: SCP-XXXX

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX is secured SAL2 at Site-17. Scheduled interviews will see SCP-XXXX escorted to Site-17's B wing via MCU-12.3 It will be released into a reinforced, partitioned interview unit, at which point ancillary members of the designated interrogation team will be free to move into position.

Description SCP-XXXX is a white, luminescent sphere approx. 58 cm in diamter. SCP-XXXX was encountered at the Baikonour Cosmodrome on 17 October 2017, where its appearance at approx. UTC 1335 was quickly brought to the Foundation's attention by the responding Kazakhstani military. Its sentience has been ascertained in an ongoing, periodic verbal intercourse, made possible by SCP-XXXX's unique manipulations of spacetime. Despite its appearance, SCP-XXXX is physical and conforms to mundane force-reaction relations, with a weight of 83.6 kg and steady internal heat of 293.8 K.

When unconfined, SCP-XXXX will levitate approx. 0.85 m off the ground in a manner best illustrated using the Alcubierre metric: rather than utilizing air currents or physical propulsion, space between SCP-XXXX and whatever surface is beneath it is contorted, whereby SCP-XXXX or forces maintaining SCP-XXXX's distance to the surface expands the latter, while at a rate conducive to the effect achieved, resolves tension in the plane above it by an unknown means of spatial compression. This aspect appears to be stable and self-sustaining, but despite extensive research, this manipulation has not yet been replicated in adjacent studies. Experimentation is ongoing.

SCP-XXXX is sentient, and through unknown means, is able to speak. SCP-XXXX's vocal projections are not conveyed traditionally; instead, preliminary study indicates it utilizes a method similar to that in its propulsion, manipulating exterior particles to form sounds equivalent to speech, and feeding them into observers over a wide area - coming to a hard stop approx. 50 m. in distance from SCP-XXXX's relative position. In addition, SCP-XXXX has only attained this attribute given time; on 3 December 2017, SCP-XXXX, during preliminary analysis of its spatial capabilities, first spoke to the on-site personnel inspecting its capacity for relational distortion. The manner in which SCP-XXXX conveys speech, as a result of its delivery, is halting and variously audible. Several personnel in close proximity to SCP-XXXX have reported hearing snippets of their own vocal conveyance in SCP-XXXX's style, leading to the consensus that, rather than generating its own specific patterns, SCP-XXXX instead records and replicates those around it.

Three interviews have been authorized thus far, and were carried out, without incident, according to procedure, on the following dates.

[[collapsible show="+ Interview 1 - 12/4/17" hide="- Hide whatever"]]

Doctor: SCP-XXXX, can you hear me?
Doctor: Good. SCP-XXXX, what is your location of origin?
[SCP-XXXX's radiance momentarily flares before receding to standard luminosity.]
SCP-XXXX: Not enough words.
Doctor: Repeat the answer, please.
SCP-XXXX: Not enough words. Much more than 16.2 meters. Star distance.
Doctor: You don't possess the vocabulary to answer the question.
Doctor: All right. We can work with that: SCP-XXXX, is your point of origin within the Milky Way galaxy?
Doctor: Surrounding astronomical formations?
SCP-XXXX: Yes. Too slow, though.
Doctor: Do you mean - small?
SCP-XXXX: Yes. Star distances.
Doctor: We can come back, once, you're able to profess your point more eloquently. That acceptable?
Doctor: I wasn't - nevermind. When were you created?
SCP-XXXX: Two answer.
Doctor: Pardon?
SCP-XXXX: Two answer. One-half star distances. One-half Baikonur.
Doctor: So - the point of your construction began in Baikonur.
SCP-XXXX: Yes. Then, star-distances.
Doctor: Are there any more of you?
SCP-XXXX: Not like me. Witness.
Doctor: We don't understand that last response.
SCP-XXXX: Witness. Need words. Give.
Doctor: You want us to give you words? XXXX - we're not even sure how you're talking at all. How would we do anything like that.
SCP-XXXX: Recording words. Play. Give words. Done.
Doctor: You want us to record words? And play them, so that you can hear them?
Doctor: We'll take it into consideration. In the meanwhile, are you satisfied with your current accommodations?
SCP-XXXX: Locker fine. Give words.

[[collapsible show="+ Interview 2 - 12/31/17" hide="- Hide whatever"]]

[[collapsible show="+ Interview 3 - 1/13/18" hide="- Hide whatever"]]

Alternate beginning to Swap Meat

As his shortbus rolled down the asphalt, glare from the sun rose up form the orange-yellow sand in every direction, rebounding off the vehicle's white and irritating his retinas.

When he had commandeered it from the insurgents, three miles back down the road, he hadn't anticipated it to be in such a bad way. Normally, they took good care of the troop transports, and as it stood it wasn't exactly in shambles. But a rotting smell came from the back which he could not identify, seats had been torn off to make room for cargo - which, evidently, had been delievered - and the engine was making a sputtering sound every five minute. Under abnormal circumstances, such defects could prove problematic. But, he reassured himself, the day was fairly routine. Two men were dead, the safehouse sacked and burned, and he had enough gas to make it twice as far as the road to his destination.

Hours passed, and not much changed. The sweat on his palms dripped onto his plaid pants. His weapon, loaded surrep


Light droplets trickled down from the light gray skyline, down and down through the dark brown treeline. She could could hear them; months of the forest had made her muscles hard, her tended hair wild and ragged. The survival pack weighed heavy as she clipped and clottered her way over the riverbank rocks, following him on the path.

He maintained his distance, as she suspected he always would. He stumbled over every boulder, and tripped into the water before catching himself. His head remained downcast, and he wrapped a woolly green coat tighter around himself as he stubbornly refused to fall. A towering, half-dead totem pole.

She could not remember the last time they had heard the beating of the wind. The forest was wider than they could walk, no matter their resolve. She knew he had drank the last of his special liquid; their last bunk, she eavesdropped on him talking to two men - who, she realized, were only his own ghosts.

Her chest rose and fell as the light from the flames played on her face. She let her jaw fall to a slight opening as she imitated the dull drowse of the other children she'd seen at the compound. She lazily retreated into the coat he'd tossed her the hour prior. He spoke softly, but she could hear him very well - very well, indeed.

"Are you still with me?" He whispered.

"Of course you are. You wouldn't abandon me to this nightmare. Not with her." He stood; his thick boots dragged themselves away from the campfire, to what she could only assume was the clifface.

"Do you remember nights like this? That moon? Do you remember it? We could sit for hours

BR ripoff

He sat up on his bed, rubbing at his eyes as he attempted to banish the pleasant dreams from which he had been so abruptly removed. "Terribly sorry, sir," a voice echoed in the dark. "Call for you."

"From? Light," he added, and across the room, a small orange lamp glowed on his dresser. He flinched, as per usual, as the sudden light revealed the voice's true form - a hovering, glittering frown, alternating between expressions as it leapt from word to word.

"Private line."

He blinked and squeezed the ridge of his nose; his discomfort was palpable as he swung out of the Twin and jogged over to the washroom. "In the bathroom, Pontus. Shades."

"Yes sir."

Story about a vending machine

Slice of life, Alexvya student getting a drink from their vending machine. Instead of money it accepts sacrifices. The sacrifices keep getting rejected because the ingredients are all wrong, and he argues with the resident goddess. He walks off in frustration.

Marshall whatever


It's a tale about a Marshall contractor, who wakes up one morning in his wood-bound lodge to discover his wife is not in his bed. He's upset, naturally and goes to wake up and make some coffee, where she comes home from a long night out. We learn that this man is in the midst of inadequacy crisis and that, despite being a gunrunner for one of the planet's top corporate entities, he makes less money than his wife, a CIA hotshot somehow operating on a greater salary. He talks to her about how tonight they can get a way, because he does earnestly love her, but of course it's all a ruse - simply a goal to work towards. He doesn't have anything left to press for in his life. We cut to a number of briefings for the Foundation, GLobal Occult COalition, FIfth Church, Are We Cool Yet, Insurgents,

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