Your Number One - SCP Foundation

To most, Skitter Marshall is a fool.

In the ranks of Marshall, Carter & Dark, he stands as the least important of those who lead the purple-spangled banners towards ever greater glory. With Iris Dark as the empress and Robert Carter as her right hand, Skitter is little more than a court jester — an attraction for all those who dare request audience with Robert, in hopes of getting through to Iris. He bears no strength and shines with no particular wit, in spite of his late father's lessons and teachings. As one of the Senior Partners to the Company, he holds immense wealth, but lives under that mantle more out of accidental kindness than any actual skill in the field of economics. He is where he is only because, at the time of Amos Marshall's untimely passing, there were no older legitimate children of House Carter to inherit the immeasurable wealth.

He is well aware of this all, of course. He knows he is a pup thrown into the cage of lions, an unprepared coward crowned as one of the three lords of an unforgiving economic battlefield. But he is also aware that he doesn't need to be anything else; with Iris keeping everyone else in rank and Robert carrying out her orders, all Skitter needs to do to win is just sit with the rest of the players and let them move their pawns. He might get laughed at by those who don't know better, but in the end, he will partake in the spoils of war alongside his battle-worn brethren anyway.

Tonight, Skitter has only one job: to look imposing.

Even considering his questionable physique, it shouldn't be that much of an issue; he's the owner of the single largest wardrobe out of anyone who has ever lived. Other members of the one-percenter's one percent may waste their wealth on trivial things such as stocks or companies, but he knows what's best for his part of the trillion dollar fortune, and he's made great use of it. Almost one tenth of his family's seat at the House of Marshall in Esterberg is dedicated to his collection of beauty from every corner of the world, and sometimes from far beyond. It's a wardrobe many would kill for — and one many have indeed already died for.

Not all of the House is just a fancy storehouse, of course. Most of it consists of silly business such as the offices of companies registered under the shared wealth of the Marshall family, fancy meeting halls, private restaurants, and luxurious locales the likes of which only belonged to gods and kings, for most of history. But on the top floor of the imposing brick, steel, and concrete building lies the real treasure: Skitter Marshall's private apartment. With one half of it dedicated to his darkened bedroom, gold-laid bathrooms, and living room covered in the hides of animals long since extinct and the other half to his collection, he's fairly certain that that floor alone could count as a whole villa in the eyes of the public.

He, for one, certainly wouldn't exchange it for anything else. Indeed, tonight, he is intent on using it to the best of his abilities. He will not fail the task he was given.

Within just an hour of waking up, he does his usual exercises and washes himself in a shower larger than some apartments. He does his skincare routine, combs his dark shoulder-length, curly hair, and takes care of his pathetic attempt at a mustache. When that's done, he eats what his private Michelin star chefs have prepared for him, and opens the doors to his real treasury.

He spends the next hour browsing between all the wardrobe has to offer. He has to make damned sure everything's as good as it can possibly be, today; there's absolutely no room for error.

After some more time comparing, trying, and cleaning, he decides that hats are too ridiculous and suits far too boring. He therefore settles on a proper dark green coat woven from the fleece of Druv'tuulian mole-sheep, stylized alongside a white shirt, beige pants, and brown shoes made from Droganian dragonhide leather — all reinforced with appropriate thaumic protective runes, of course. He finishes his piece with some old seal rings that have once belonged to his father, all smithed from Yeren blacksteel, and his signature cane, decorated with the House Marshall bloodhound insignia. (He doesn't actually need it for anything — he just considers it a fine symbol of power to make his image even more timeless.)

Had this been a different day, he would have put on some earrings, too — but tonight, he doesn't want to invoke any sympathy or weakness. He wants to be seen as someone so far out of the other's league that he almost maybe imposes some shade of authority.

When all is done, Skitter takes a step back, and looks in the mirror.

As always, he looks great.

He takes a deep breath, stops with the nervous smile, and puts on his best passive-aggressive face.

Without further hesitation, he calls the elevator meant to transport him to his personal office, and readies for the one thing he's dreaded for months at this point: to be the more privileged part of a job interview.

Come to think of it, Skitter Marshall is more of a parasite than any actual jester. Jesters get where they are because of what they can do — or, perhaps, what they were unable to do when they were born. Skitter meanwhile just leeches off of the great vaults Iris and Robert fill with more and more blood money. He's here because it's so much easier to maintain this charade than to get rid of him. Before Iris made her power concrete, it was Skitter's heritage that gave her the greatest fortune this planet has ever seen. Besides, by that time, she's already taken care of two other Partners too eager in their climb up the social ladder. So to Iris, having a fool who's only interested in like minded girls, wine, and a good time is an alternative far better than growing potential enemies at home. Especially when, just like Skitter, that fool fears you — and knows that without you, he is nothing.

But no, "parasite" isn't quite right, either; parasites only take and take and take, preying upon those unfortunate enough to be their hosts and bringing them into inevitable demise. Skitter's existence is not of detriment to the Company, in spite of what independent outside specialists may claim. Though he's a pathetic moron, he brings to the table what no other of his fellow Partners can, in spite of their talents: the illusion of safety. He's a third wheel in what would otherwise be a duo, a shadow of stability that makes a partnership into a proper and truly iconic company, in the eyes of the public.

She's already waiting for him when he emerges from the elevator.

His personal office is a small, brutalist room, one not larger than maybe twelve square meters. Its walls are made of concrete, and the only decoration inside is his wooden desk with two chairs on opposite sides, placed directly in the middle of the office. Nothing hangs on the walls of the ceiling, barring a single, white fluorescent light.

If he hadn't ordered it cleaned yesterday, his newcomer would almost certainly see it filled with dust. The room, aimed at serious work for serious adults, doesn't see much use. With the exception of the occasional drink or wild night with a partner, Skitter doesn't enter it, ever. It's more of a symbol than any real office.

Except for tonight, of course.

He doesn't want to do this, but he's got no choice. He needs a right hand, someone who'll help him make his task — being the face of the company — less of a chore. He isn't particularly keen on actually interviewing this woman — especially since all of his go-to experts have already recommended her more than enough — but he isn't keen on being alone with his work even more.

So as not to postpone further, he clears his throat and sits down, trying his very best to remain in his face and posture. Though he's lanky, his height makes looking down on people even easier than it normally would. He hopes it'll be enough.

Before him sits Malory Taylor. She's a tall woman, somewhere maybe in her early forties. She's wearing a gray suit — it pairs with her tied up, graying hair. Her face is unreadable, and her hands are put together on her desk. She's looking right at him, total neutrality present in those gray eyes. Skitter can see her briefcase right next to the concrete chair; her resume folder has already been placed upon his desk.

He must say she's dealing quite well with his hostile interior. Much better than anyone that has sat there before her did, at the very least.

"So, Taylor," he begins, also putting his hands together. "I see you've made it."

"Yes, sir," she replies almost automatically. There are no emotions in her tone.

Skitter resists the urge to narrow his eyes; instead, he just picks up the folder and begins browsing through it, pretending he's seeing it for the first time. Pretending that he hasn't studied this person extensively for many weeks beforehand.

"Six years as CEO of Void. Eight more as the head of HR and Media for Marshall Drafts." He pretend-browses some more, trying to ascertain her reaction. None comes. "Well. I believe it's fair to say you are indeed qualified for the position."

"Yes, sir," she says once more. "Thank you, sir."

He eyes her, but doesn't say anything. "Yes, you're more than skilled enough. I'm certain of that." He pauses, and looks her directly in the eyes. "But here's my question, Taylor: what do you really want?"

She skews her head. "Sir?"

"You could have remained at your previous position for as long as you wanted to. You'd certainly never suffer from poverty, as I'm sure none of your offspring would for many generations yet. You had everything you could have ever wanted. Yet you want more. Why?" He pauses. "What's your endgame, here?"

She considers for a moment.

"The only thing I want, sir — the only thing I've ever wanted — is reason."

He's the one to skew his head, this time around.

"The world is filled with nonsense. With ridiculous morons thinking they know what's best." Something almost akin to disgust creeps onto her face. "They are all little more than misguided sheep, all mumbling under crowns of pretend-power. They need a shepherd. Someone that will show them what the proper path really is. Someone that will show them the way forward, and what their place along it is."

Skitter almost smiles. Taylor's eyelid almost twitches.

"This is what I want, Mister Marshall. A chance to build that future. To assist the architects of humanity, against all irreason."

For a moment, Skitter just sits there. Then, very slowly, he grins, and stands up.

"Well then, Malory," he says. "I am really glad to hear that. Because I think I've heard enough."

He corrects his coat, and extends his way forward. "Welcome aboard, Malory. I'll be glad to have you by our side, when we finally build our beautiful future. " He pauses. "There is still work to be done before we get there; I am happy to work with you to achieve it."

She grabs his hand and, for the first time this evening, her face twists into a smile. "Oh, I do not think that will be the case, Mister Marshall," she chuckles. For a brief second, a flash of yellow flies across her eyes.

Almost automatically, before he can think, Skitter asks: "Oh? And why is that?"

Before he can react, before he can do anything, she reaches to the inside of her suit and unsheaths a knife. He tries to pull away, but with her tightening grip, he's too slow. She slashes his hand.

Blood flies everywhere, and his small finger falls off, cleanly. He screams in terror.

She just smiles. "Because you will not live to see that future, you piece of shit."

Better yet, unlike Iris and Robert, he's human.

Iris is practically a god to most of the uneducated hoi polloi. She's a genius, a miracle kid who took a decadent fortune and turned it into the first multi-trillion dollar business the world has ever seen. With her wit, determination, and thaumic talent, she's of no match to anyone, on pretty much all fields — an unforgiving queen no matter the court. With Robert never leaving her shadow, he's a stern reminder of what happens to those who dare to challenge Iris; one that doesn't let anything and anyone get in the way of her monopolistic conquest. One who's ready to make new vassals kneel before the might he represents.

Skitter, meanwhile, is none of that; he's no genius and he's no enforcer, no star to outshine others in the night sky. He's just Skitter: a moron that still somehow manages to carry on, an idiot that lives, laughs, and loves. A symbol for fools just like him to pick up as their own and worship with posts, interviews, and articles. In that regard, he too is maybe almost some minor godhead — but unlike the other members of his pantheon, he's a man of the people. Those stupid enough to believe that for even a moment, at the very least.

His brain immediately goes into overdrive. He subconsciously reverts to the most basic of instincts, the moment the blade touches his hand.

Before he can think, his whole body jerks itself backwards. He doesn't even feel the pain from the lost finger — with adrenaline rushing to his brain like never before, everything that isn't getting out of the room gets filtered out of his thoughts.

Taylor's face twists with anger as she slashes once more, this time aiming for the face. She misses — with Skitter doing his best to dodge, her knife falls onto his shoulder. He lets out a quiet yelp from the impact, but his skin doesn't get cut — the protective runes woven into the fabric do their job, even without him thinking about them. That doesn't stop Taylor, though, who continues her flurry.

Somehow, against all odds, Skitter is nimbler than the knife.

He falls back even further until he hits the concrete wall, feeling the movement bruise his back and spine. Without thinking, he does the only thing that can postpone his offender, the only thing that can give him a chance at escape — he takes off his coat and throws it at Malory. She isn't fast enough to get out of its way, and she meets it face-first.

Before she can untangle herself from the heavy mess, Skitter jumps forward, towards the exit Malory has walked through. He has to get away from her. Even he isn't stupid enough to use the elevator.

In one swift movement, he reaches the doors and falls through into a fire exit staircase. He tries punching the alarm button, but — just as he has expected — it doesn't do anything. The wires are cut.

For a few milliseconds, his brain goes into panic mode as he starts to climb up, up towards his own apartment in hopes of getting into familiar ground. On his third step, he remembers he's got his phone by his side. He unpockets it and as he notices it won't turn on, he trips and falls right onto his face.

All of this takes maybe two seconds.

In-between gurgles of blood, he spits out a tooth, and sees that Taylor isn't far behind. Before he can stand back up, she lunges forward at him, her weapon extended. He dodges, but barely; with her now on top of him, he narrowly musters enough strength to throw her off and stand up. One of his strands of hair gets caught on her blade. The slash follows through, leaving a scratch on his chin and a solid half of his head bald.

It's better than being dead, but only barely.

With all the determination he can gather, he kicks her right in the face.

She's almost too shocked to react, and his dragonhide shoe breaks her nose. But the blood that comes out of it isn't red — it's a slime-like gray substance that evaporates as quickly as it appears. For a brief second, the flesh around her wound moves and twists, revealing a layer of dark veins and meat underneath it. She hisses, and Marshall kicks her two more times.

Under normal circumstances, he would never kick a woman, but he's got no choice — it's either him or her. Besides, whatever this shapeshifting thing is, it definitely isn't Malory Taylor.

Before she can get up, he jumps, immediately running up the stairs. He's no athlete, but thanks to his everyday exercises — and extremely expensive treatments extending his youth — he manages to outpace her. He doesn't stop even when he gets to the top, doesn't stop even to turn on the lights in the next room. There's no time for that, and he knows the layout almost by heart. Without exaggeration, he's spent many years inside that wardrobe.

As he feels a thrown knife puncture the flesh above his ankle, Skitter Marshall loses his balance, falling right into his darkness-covered dressing room.

Yes, "parasite" isn't good — "icon" is more like it.

Skitter Marshall is an icon.

With his colorful suits and a wide smile on his face, Skitter is a proper icon. One they can plaster on ads and put on late night TV programs to do all the talking. When the adults are focused on business, Skitter gets sent to be the face of the Company — he'd be of no use anywhere else anyway, and the faces of the two other candidates may come off as far more monstrous than would be ideal. Better yet, with this task given, Skitter can indulge in the only thing he's really good at: fashion.

He was born a talentless hack in pretty much all fields available except this one, but by some pure chance — or perhaps pity on behalf of an otherwise uncaring universe — Skitter Marshall was born with an immaculate eye when it comes to fashion.

Nobody can quite tell why; he's got no skills in design and indeed no artistic muscle at all, but whenever he opens the wardrobe, it's always to kill it with the look. In-between all of his pastel suits, fancy canes, and rings made from the most precious of metals, he looks like an aging bisexual that hasn't yet come to terms with the reality of his circumstances, in spite of his thoroughly mundane nature. With the beauty in the eyes of billions, he appears like a true flash of color in an otherwise black and white world of boring suits. Where others dress to impress an uncaring audience, he's a breath of fresh air and courage — the first real spark of originality and individuality in the washed out and painfully optimized reality of twenty first century capitalism.

He hides in-between his clothes the second he goes through. Only barely does he resist the urge to shout from the pain of his new wound. He grits his teeth, powering through the pain — and the realization his blood is staining his carpet floor.

The room is some-fifty square meters large, all dark walls and hangers with clothes sorted by make and color. Thanks to their size — and sheer amount — you can only barely see above the garments, so hiding is as simple as just crouching. Besides, to the untrained eye, the wardrobe is more akin to a labyrinth than any actual, navigable room.

Though Skitter hears Malory's steps as she enters the room, he knows she won't find him here for at least a few seconds. More than enough to put together a plan.

Before he does figure out what to do, though, he needs to know what he's up against.

Whatever that thing is, it's definitely not Malory Taylor. It can shapeshift, that much is certain, but is limited to physical combat in its skills — had it any spark of magic inside its veins, it would have long-since taken Skitter out with a spell. It's both a relief and a drawback — with the runes writ onto his clothing, he would have one more advantage against her, but at least now, he knows what to expect.

Good. He knows what she is. That's better than nothing.

What else?

Her motivations are irrelevant, at least for now. She wants to kill him, that's all that counts. But for whom? Who stands behind this attempt? Is this an act of individual vigilantism, some gambit made by the Hand (the usage of a creature magical in nature would certainly fit their profile), or…

…or Iris Dark?

A cold shiver goes down his spine as he comes to a realization he doesn't quite like.

Though never confirmed outright, when his father died, Skitter is quite certain it was Iris behind the blade. She sought power, and both Amos Marshall and Ruprecht Carter were in the way. Skitter never much cared either way — he didn't harbor particular love for any of his late kin — but it did mean that Iris was capable of anything for a higher throne.

Could it be that this time, Skitter was an obstacle towards greater glory? That his role was already played? That—

"Come out, you little rat," he suddenly hears a whisper ring inside his head. It's so loud it almost hurts. It's not spoken words, of that he's certain — the only real sound that the pretend-Malory is making is the noise of throwing the clothes out of their hangers, searching for the skittering Marshall. "Don't make this messier than it has to be."

He shakes his head. If it's some flavor of telepath, it's definitely the Hand. Iris would have already taken care of the job, if it was her. He wouldn't be standing here, having this realization.

He slowly creeps further into the closet as he feels Malory approach. He doesn't have much time left. He has to figure something out.

He takes a few quick, quiet breaths, and closes his eyes. He needs to focus.

He can't win with the assassin in fair, melee combat. He's a lanky stick, and even the with added protection of his clothes, he's no match for someone with knives. There's no telling what that thing can morph into, so fighting fair's off the table. He can't escape, either. The only other exit, barring the one he just went through, is on the other side of the room, right along Malory. He won't be able to sneak that far without being noticed.

So, he can't fight nor flee. He—

"There is no other exit, boy. You know this. Come out, and I'll make it quick."

A thought dawns suddenly on him: the shapeshifter is agile, but also fragile. If his shoe was enough to fracture her skin, it means it's much more brittle than that of baseline people. It also maybe — just maybe — means it will react much more feverishly to other types of damage, too.

He resists the urge to grin as an idea enters his mind. It's a stupid, stupid play, one that will most likely end with him six feet under, but it's also his only chance at survival.

He breaths in, and jumps out of the hangers, right into open view. Before Malory can turn to see him, he quickly grabs one of the nearby clothes — a red, flashy robe — and puts it right on. He crosses his arms.

"Malory!" he shouts, his legs firmly placed upon the ground below them. "I'm here, you bitch!"

Slowly, she turns towards him. She's standing maybe two meters before him. She narrows his eyes, suspicious of his sudden appearance, but still determined to take him out. She corrects the grip on her weapon.

"I'm glad you chose to listen to reason, Marshall," she says, and extends her arm, throwing the weapon without any hesitation.

He's more than ready.

In one swift movement, he ducks — feeling the pain of every single wound he's been inflicted — and grips the side of his red robe with enough strength to pull a muscle. He then takes it and throws it at Malory once more, this time aiming at her arm. Immediately, mid-air, it catches fire at the end of its sleeves and around its neck.

The robe is an old gift, one given to his grandfather by the ambassadors of the then-still-extant Chinese Abnormality Institute. Centuries ago, it was a garment used by flame battlemages, pyromancers trained in the art of total war. For many years now, it was little more than a stylish over-the-top piece Skitter would sometimes use during particularly pretentious ceremonies. Still, it carried its initial purpose — that of intimidating the common man by helping the masters of fire spark their flame — more than enough.

Malory tries to dodge, but is far too slow — and the robe is far too wide. Part of it falls onto her, and, just as Skitter expects, pretend-Malory catches fire.

Within seconds, all of her skin bursts ablaze. Before she can do anything — before she can even reach for the nearest extinguisher — she burns into dust right in front of his eyes.

If Skitter had any more energy left in him, he would rush towards the still-lit pile of bones and burnt flesh and get as many of his clothes away from it as possible. Instead, though, tired and exhausted, he feels the adrenaline flush itself out of his system.

Seconds later, he's lying on the ground, unconscious.

Above all else, though, Skitter Marshall is a puppet.

He's been one for his whole life, really; a doll always moving to the whims of others. He might have strings of silk and a cage with bars of gold, but he's at the mercy of forces far greater — and far wiser — than he could ever hope to be. Indeed, such has been the case ever since he's drawn his first breath, shouting tears of infant fear in-between the cries of his own dying mother. Always a slave to something grander.

First, to the universe itself. Out of all the possible mothers, it was Miss Louise Marshall that bore him. The wife of the richest man on the planet, and he was her son. Out of all the possibilities, he was the one that received that honor — he, perhaps the person who deserved it the least.

Then, to some cruel trick of fate. All of his brothers and sisters, all older and more fitting to the position of heir than him — and he was the only one that survived. Sickness, nature, enemies, and their own kin, all tools uncaring destiny has used against House Marshall during the times of Skitter. When it really mattered, when Amos Marshall fell to his own kin and left his fortune without an owner, he was the one who rose on top. He, who was never meant to be anyone but a fancy cupbearer for the real Lord Marshall.

And now, to Iris Dark. As the latest in his string of masters, she tasks him with the only thing she could never do herself: to be incompetent. To be human, in front of the eyes of billions, and give her the compassion she could never take herself. She's no better than all of the previous lords and ladies which had Skitter as their pawn, but at least with her, he feels like it's all for a purpose. That, no matter the nonsense he has to put up with in-between his pleasures, it's all building towards something.

Some days, he's almost afraid of what it is she really wants. Even he isn't dumb enough to not see there's some grand end goal she aspires towards, some terrible finale to her — their — story. She'd of course never tell him, even if he asked, but he knows it has to be something big. It has been in the works for at least a few decades by now, and Iris has never been one for small conclusions.

Whatever it is, Skitter knows it will be the grandest thing the world has ever seen — and, however it may be, he will have to play a part in it. One more play as a puppet, one more pull of his strings. One more game to endure.

One he, truth be told, doesn't quite mind. For for as long as the wine flows and the girls remain pretty, Skitter thinks he quite likes his cage, however tightening it may be.

When he wakes up again, bloodied and bruised, Skitter starts the slow crawl towards his chambers, wincing at the damage done to his wardrobe. With a broken leg, burnt hair, and torn-apart clothes, he doesn't think he could get any more pathetic even if he tried. If anyone were to see him, he's certain he would appear as little more than vermin. As some pitiful little bug, barely distinguishable from homeless trash. As someone not worthy of any compassion, let alone admiration. And that thought, even more so than the needles of pain each movement pushes into his brain, fills him with fury.

Fury enough that, even though the adrenaline has already worn off and he feels like he's dying, he makes it up those stairs. Step by step, one groan of unimaginable pain after the other, he climbs them.

He almost passes out when he tries to stand up.

Eventually — and after one too many deep, half-panicked breaths — he manages to muster enough strength to open the doors. He's always hated them, always despised the fact they interfered with his decor for the sake of fire safety instructions that Iris enforced even here, even upon him. Right now, though, he doesn't think he's ever been more grateful for anything in his life.

He falls through them onto the cold marble floor. He doesn't even groan from the pain. He just lays there, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to stand up — unable to be.

Soon enough, though, he does look up. He's not sure why, but he does it — maybe in hope of seeing one of his staff waiting there for him like a savior, as his own personal low-born Jesus. (Not being particularly enlightened himself, Christ's material status escapes him, as does the irony of that thought.)

When he notices Iris Dark standing above him, he winces so hard he almost pulls a muscle.

She just stands there, her tall, slender figure propped up against the wall opposite of the door he's fallen through. Her eyes are narrowed, and her face is unreadable — all he can discern from her posture is that she has been waiting for him for a while, now.

He almost sighs. So it was her, after all.

"I-Iris," he manages to mumble with his bruised lips and broken teeth.

She nods, slowly. "Yes, Skitter, it's me." She crosses her arms and walks up towards him. "I see you managed to persist." She puts emphasis on the last syllable. "In spite of my expectations."

He gulps. It makes his throat feel drier than a desert. "You… You saw?"

"I did. It was certainly a spectacle."

Well, then. That confirms it. He closes his eyes. "So it was you, then?"

She almost laughs. "Come now, Skitter. Really? If it was me, we wouldn't be having this conversation." She pauses, and ponders her nails. "No, it wasn't me. But I did see every second of your struggle. In quite more detail than I would have hoped, I should add."

His confusion grows even further.

"W-Why?" he whispers out, trying to shake his head.

"Why what? Why didn't I help you?" She pauses. "Because, truth be told, Skitter, I was curious."

He doesn't raise an eyebrow.

"Curious whether you had the fire in you." She uncrosses her arms, and lowers herself to his level. "I wouldn't have let that pathetic worm kill you, is that what you fear? That I'd get rid of you? Please. Your blood is worth far too much to spill it."

She shakes her head. "But I needed to see. Needed to see if you are worthy, of what I have planned. If you really are ready to take on the weight of a crown."

She stands up, and puts on a fake smile. "Now," she says, "let's get you patched up." She takes out her phone, and pats him on the back. "You've got an appearance on live TV tomorrow. I can't let them see you like this. It would be bad business."