Silas Rockwell and the Reflection of Heaven (Prologue) - SCP Foundation

Blue Foot

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Central China, Early May 1940

It was a dark, moonless night in Hubei Province, and all was quiet in the forest. Even the crickets’ song was strangely silent, as if the insects had gone to sleep that night to rest their collective voice. The quiet was broken, and even then only barely so, by the bubbling and light splashing of a turtle rising to the surface from the riverbed. The earthy odor of the flourishing spring grass, nourished by heavy rain and the great surging Yangtze, nearly overpowered the landscape. Truly, it would’ve been all that filled one’s nose if not for the smell of gunpowder and steel pervading the land.

Boom.

The first blast of the Japanese artillery rang out. A zealous officer wanted the honor of beginning the bombardment.

Boom.

He fired another shell.

Boom.

Rushing to their stations, the quickest of the Chinese artillerymen returned fire with a single shot.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

A symphony of explosions erupted on either side of the field. Firing under the concealment of the tree canopy, rows upon rows of guns opened up. Infantry temporarily retreated to safety of underground dugouts, and airmen filed out to the runways.

But the crashing of shells and whistling of mortar, though disturbing to the birds and causing the rats to scurry to their holes, were but a distant and waning concert to the 20 or 30 dark silhouettes marching through the black forest. Far behind Japanese lines and guided only by firefly, feel, and experience, their objective seemed out of reach to any outside observer. Even some of the men there thought such was so.

“Wǒmen dàodǐ wèishéme yào lái zhèlǐ?” A disgruntled man muttered.

“Wǒmen zhǐ qù fénmù.” His equally unhappy comrade agreed quietly. At this, the man at the front of the group stood to the side and stopped, waiting until the discontented pair caught up to him. Once he was at their side, he shoved one of the men into the other. He began to chastise them severely in a hushed, furious tone. If it weren't for the need for quiet, he would’ve likely yelled his message to them.

“Don’t go too hard on them, Mingyu. I’d think this was a suicide mission too if I knew as much as you’ve told them.” An out of place American voice, speaking in English, came from just in front of the back of the band. Mingyu scoffed and sped up his pace to meet the American man. He seemed out of place among the Chinese guerrillas, wearing leather, jeans, and a casual button-up beneath his jacket. But the confident expression on his grizzled, handsome face made it seem like he felt right at home.

“That is lieutenant, doctor,” responded the officer in heavily accented English, scowling. “Lieutenant Dai Mingyu, People’s Liberation Army.” The American smirked. The officer, dressed the most formally of all the peasant soldiers, stood out by wearing a cap with a red star and clean glasses as well as a field worker's light cotton. He had piercing eyes that stabbed daggers into any man he wished to unsheath them on with a stare. Any man but the American. He had seen them in plenty of men.

“Alright, alright, take it easy now.” He said.

“If you can suffer to call me lieutenant, and I can call you doctor, Mr. Rockwell, there will be peace. Otherwise, I can guarantee you nothing.”

Lieutenant Dai paused for a moment. The band began to cross a small creek, stepping from rock to rock as a path across the ankle-deep, flowing water. In the far off battle, the sounds of propellers and dropping bombs joined the ensemble. The officer continued.

“And who do you think you are, judging how I lead my own men?” Dai continued.

“No one,” Rockwell responded. “But it wouldn't hurt that they know why they're fighting, that's all my point.”

“You want to discuss why we fight? Where did you get all this information we’ve based the entire attack on, doctor? I still await an answer.”

Rockwell frowned. The band had crossed the creek. Faint lights began to become visible through the thick forest.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Thus I cannot trust you.” Rockwell sighed and rolled his eyes.

“When have I ever let you down?”

Lieutenant Dai grunted. He spat to his side. Rockwell continued.

“We will never need to see each other again after this. Let’s try not to get into it for just one last time.” Lieutenant Dai did not respond. No one spoke for some time after.

Finally, the band exited the forest, stopping short at the treeline of a large clearing. Every man fell crouched just at the edge of the darkness, out of sight of those who may be occupying their objective.

Maybe 1000 feet up a moderately-sloped hill lay the site of a Japanese camp. With every lamp on and spotlights sweeping across the land, it seemed that the encampment would be bustling with the activity of an army at full strength. However, besides the lights, the entire area sounded and looked very quiet. No soldiers or trucks were seen or heard, at least from where the guerrillas were.

“There will be no eastern devils, doctor? I will not send my men into their deaths.” Lieutenant Dai asked, hushed.

“I have said it before. They’re on the attack to take Yichang, three miles southwest.”

“They’re clearly manning the spotlights. If you're wrong, we will all die.”

“There’s a tiny garrison, and that’s it. There are less of them than us, and we have the element of surprise.”

Lieutenant Dai paused.

“Your head is on the line. Let us have victory.” The lieutenant raised his voice slightly.

“Ràng wǒmen kāishǐ ba.”

“Shì de!” The men of the band responded, though certainly not at appropriate volume for a cheer. At that, everyone fell to their stomachs, and the guerrilla group began to crawl towards the Japanese camp. On his belly, Rockwell felt his shoulder holster uncomfortably pushed up through his armpit. The leather piece was not designed to be pressed against the dirt, especially when worn by a crawling man.

The distance to their objective was not far from the treeline. The green of the tents and the illuminating light poles were easily visible over the crest of the hill, even from the bottom. Along the way, they’d only need to cross a clear slope of grass, bar a few possible unseen rocks. However, the threat of detection loomed. A spotlight, always on guard for intruders, slowly crossed the hill face like a pendulum. Back and forth, back and forth. So the communist cell hugged the earth, slowly scaling the slope up to the camp.

Each man was spread across a large area on the hillside, alone or in pairs. Rockwell found himself next to Private Luo, a very large man who didn’t speak much. Whenever food was brought into the safehouse, he always ate three times the ration. He also did three times the work whenever there was a need to lift or move anything, being the first man Lieutenant Dai always called for.

Rockwell, though a PhD, found himself to be behind the curve when it came to avoiding spotlights. A quick learner, he observed how the guerrillas did it. They never stopped moving, determined to stay exposed on the hillside for as little as possible. When the light crept up to where he was about to crawl, Private Luo slowed down, letting it pass before going. Private Chen, a wiry man often picked to run messages between cells, would break from his crawl and run forward hunchbacked. No matter how close the light was, Chen was determined to race it, and he always succeeded.

Rockwell had kept up well. The band was maybe 100 feet from climbing to the top of the hill. The doctor had been using a two-wheeled cart sitting at the very edge of the summit as his goal, as passing it would mean he had entered the plateau on which the camp was built. The threat of the spotlight was nearly passed. Though it was slowly creeping toward him, it was of no concern; he could easily get out of the way, he thought. Rockwell quickened his pace to get out of the way of the light. He was unable to move, and felt a pull along his shoulder holster.

“Shit.” He mumbled quietly. He tried to move by force, crawling with more strength yet again. He only received a stronger pull around his chest. The searchlight came closer.

“Not now.” Rockwell mumbled again, coolheaded but not so confident anymore. He patted around the spot of his snag. After feeling a few handfuls of earth and grass, he found the issue: Rockwell had managed to run into one of the few rocks on the hillside. A peculiarly hooked stone, embedded in the dirt, had caught the leather straps of his shoulder holster.

The glow of the spotlight began to overpower the view to Rockwell’s right, as the very edge of it was nearly upon him. It was a matter of seconds before he was exposed to the Japanese, and they would defend the camp to the death. He quickly worked the straps, finding that two of them that connected near his rib were both hooked on the rock.

The light grew closer.

Rockwell pulled the vertical strap free.

The light was the length of a man away.

Rockwell pulled the horizontal strap free.

The right side of Rockwell’s body began to be illuminated by the dim glow of the spotlight’s edge.

Rockwell jumped forward, scraping by just as the spotlight swooped by where he was just moments before. He took a moment to breathe. He looked behind him. The light had continued on its way, seemingly oblivious to the doctor’s presence. Rockwell was certain that he had been seen, but it seemed he had gotten lucky this time.

With the guerrillas unaware of Rockwell’s near-miss, and him certainly not rushing to tell them about it, the band reached the camp without word on his incident. They met behind the cart at the edge of the camp, barely illuminated by the lights of the camp. The two dozen hid to the best of their ability, the two wheels, combined with the blocks underneath, providing some height to obscure their crouching figures. Lieutenant Dai whispered to his own men in his own language, before turning to Rockwell.

“-And Dr. Rockwell can take whatever he wants, and thus we can end our relationship…cordially.” Rockwell nodded. He understood the goal of Dai’s men: to kill the few Japanese in the camp and take as much guns and ammunition that they could carry out.

“I’ll stay out of your way. It was a pleasure working with you, lieutenant.” Rockwell responded with much more sincerity on his face than in his heart. With that, Dai exchanged a few more words with the guerillas, and they all rose and entered the camp silently.

Rockwell began to casually walk on his own into the camp. The Chinese spread out in groups of five to eliminate their enemy. Fighting was their responsibility. The only reason he’d even taken them along was to ensure the few Japanese guards left in the camp were no threat to him, and even then he only brought them for that purpose under heavy protest. Rockwell spent hours trying to convince his boss that he didn’t need help, that going alone was more safe and efficient, but he was told that their presence was mandatory. Why, he asked? New security protocols for field agents, demanded by the brass from the top. Too costly to give out so many bereavement packages for all the agents killed in the warzones that had popped up in the past couple years. Rockwell knew better than to argue with the bureaucracy. At the very least he compromised to take a band he actually had some history with, not the new group of Nationalist insurgents his boss thought would be the most competent.

Walking down the lanes of tents, light poles, and stacked boxes, the doctor heard the sounds of the Chinese doing their own part. Shots occasionally rang out, but that was only the main course of a full accompaniment of scattered screams, shouted exclamations, and all manner of wood being pried and destroyed. Rockwell was slightly concerned when he saw a Japanese soldier leaning against a pole not far in front of him. The young soldier seemed deaf when a Chinese man sprinted up from behind him and ran him through with a bayonet, not reacting at all to the sound of him running. When Rockwell walked by the dead man, the blood leaking from his mouth seemed to source from a smile.

Eventually, after a long but straight shot deep into the camp, Rockwell found what he was looking for: a great big tent, with no windows or openings other than a cloth door. A big pile of crates stacked in the most peculiar way adjacent to the tent, the one where a private was breaking open a box with a crowbar, marked his objective. Rockwell noticed a crate was precariously placed on the edge of another just above the man's head. A small movement could cause it to fall.

"Xiǎoxīn, xiāngzi huì diào dào nǐ shēnshang." Rockwell said, warning the man of the danger.

"Qù sǐ ba." The guerrilla said with derision, not even turning to face Rockwell. The doctor shrugged. His funeral if he wanted to be a hardhead.

A sign was planted at the door, with kanji stating to all who saw it “DO NOT ENTER”. Here, Rockwell was briefed, he would find his prizes. As the doctor was stepping inside, he felt a hand being placed on his shoulder. He whipped around to see Lieutenant Dai.

“What is it, Mingyu? You said we were done.” Rockwell asked, annoyed. The officer made a sour face and snorted before responding.

“I don’t trust this.” He said. Rockwell sighed deeply.

“Why the hell not?”

“We have found maybe eight or nine eastern devils. The men in the watchtowers have boarded themselves in with boards and chairs. They didn't even know we were coming, yet their doors are blocked. I have a feeling-”

“Listen, there’s no one here. If you’re worried, take what you need and leave. Just stay out of my way.” Rockwell concluded with a huff. As Dai turned red and wore an expression of indignation, the doctor entered the tent. He had no patience for the petty concerns of the communists.

A lit lamp hung from the ceiling at the intersection of the tent poles, illuminating the space with an orangish tint. Inside those green walls lay tables and piles of priceless treasures, the spoils of the 11th Army marauding and looting through central China. Rockwell took in a breath, enjoying the smell of the ancient.

A display of colorful, adorned samurai armor was the most striking feature on the east wall. Small crates and boxes, themselves ornate and beautiful, were filled to the brim with gold and jewels and lined up against the wall of the tent. Artifacts, like classical pottery, swords, and idols were organized on several tables. Pallets were loaded with assorted precious stones.

Though Rockwell was not shy to help himself to a few loose jewels, he was not there for regular old metal and crystals. He, instead, turned to the table that was completely unorganized, which appeared to be the least valuable of them all. It was labeled with a piece of paper that said “普通でない”, or “unusual”. This table, left unorganized and with items scattered about, seemed uncared for. However, he knew they were the most valuable of all.

Rockwell immediately recognized the Jinjiao Jian, the Scissors of the Golden Scaly Dragons. With golden handles like a dragons' heads and blades like sharp teeth, it was written that the artifact took in heavenly energy to be able to cut through anything. The doctor was found it to be surprisingly heavy. There was the beautifully molded Luobao Jingqian, the Treasure-Defeating Gold Coin, which made useless magic and projectiles, and the Ruyi Jingu Bang, the Monkey King's cudgel that adjusted to any size. He saw the Wanya Hu, the Pot of Ten Thousand Crows which Luo Xuan used to burn down an entire city.

"I guess the princess didn't destroy it." Rockwell thought. He had read Romance of Gods as part of his doctorate research, and it is written that the pot, an ornate teapot made of jade, was destroyed for its power. That book was usually accurate, but it seemed that there was evidence for a new error in the text.

Following protocol, Rockwell quickly jotted down all he saw. He knew he couldn't carry everything out. The priceless spears, staffs, and swords were too big to take with him, so the news of their existence and location would be the most valuable thing he could bring back home.

When finished writing, Rockwell began filling his sack with the smaller priceless treasures. Even if he from time to time took the liberty to pad it with normal artifacts, his bag was meant to take these anomalous objects with him. And so he did, working as quickly as possible. He was pleasantly surprised to see Wukong's cudgel fit in his sack snugly, even if he tried to place it inside when it was five feet long.

As Rockwell, struggling with the space already taken up by loot, was trying to stuff the Scissors of the Golden Scaly Dragons in through the cramped opening of the bag, he heard the footsteps of someone entering the tent. Very focused, he did not immediately turn to see the person.

"Dr. Rockwell?" The voice said clearly. It was Lieutenant Dai.

"Mingyu? What is it?" Rockwell asked, not even concerned to look at him. After a moment, the doctor was surprised to then hear a clicking sound. It was unmistakably recognizable as a pistol, the officer having cocked it to be ready to fire. That certainly got his attention, and Rockwell swiftly turned to face the officer. He took a deep breath.

"Lieutenant Dai." Rockwell said, calmly and fearlessly.

"Ah, the bird sings a new song." Lieutenant Dai replied smugly, grinning ear to ear. He pointed his pistol at Rockwell and held it at his hip.

“So, you’re truly nothing more than a thief? Color me…unsurprised.”

“And you’re the one saying this? Now?”

Lieutenant Dai laughed.

“The supplies we have borrowed will come back to the eastern devils sometime or another, even if not in the way they’d like. But you…you’re simply a bandit, blinded by the glitter of gold.”

“You’ve never thought this before? At least, you've never seemed bothered."

"I'm not so foolish. But given our work together is done, and you know far too much about this cell’s activities for any single man bar me and Chairman Mao, I believe the time to act is now. I have given the order to the men that your time is up."

Rockwell took a moment to think before speaking.

“Lieutenant Dai, listen-”

Rockwell stepped forward, and Lieutenant Dai raised the pistol to a firing position. Rockwell took the hint, and stepped back before continuing, resting one hand on a crate of stolen items to his right and using the other to emphasize his points.

“Can I tell you the truth?”

The officer raised his eyebrow, prompting Rockwell to continue.

“I’m not here to take just any of this-” the doctor motioned his hand towards the boxes of gold and gems, “-no, but for these things.” Rockwell turned towards the table of unusual items. “They're pieces of history, yes, but they're…different. They don't make sense in our understanding of the world. You-"

"They're magical?" Lieutenant Dai butted in.

"Yes," Rockwell continued, "If that's how you want to say it. I need to take these home so they can be studied, so we can improve the world. Isn't that what Chairman Mao would do? For the new China?" Rockwell concluded, ending his speech with a salesman's grin.

Lieutenant Dai took a moment to think. He then scoffed.

"You know nothing about Chairman Mao, or his vision. The new China will have no place for such superstition. You are no better than any other foreign devil, taking the history of my people as spoil."

Lieutenant Dai paused for a moment, then laughed.

"If you really want to help Chairman Mao's vision for a new China, we need money, and these things will fetch a…handsome, price."

"I'll help carry them out for you."

Lieutenant Dai laughed once again.

"No, Mr. Rockwell, I believe your time has already run far past its course. Goodbye."

As soon as Lieutenant Dai finished speaking, both men’s ears were perked by the rise of noise outside the tent. The occasional gunshot and yell of a man suddenly erupted into a new chorus of barked orders, war cries, blaring of alarms, and the beginning of several firefights all throughout the camp. Dai, looking around the tent in confusion, spared the American for a moment.

"What is that? What have you done?"

"Nothing!" Rockwell replied emphatically.

Silently, as Lieutenant Dai stood uncertain of what to do, a pine cone shaped object rolled from the tent door across the grassy floor. The object gingerly stopped near the room's entrance, tapping on the officer's heel. Dai looked downward to find a grenade, primed with the pin removed, sitting right at his feet. He went bug-eyed at the sight. Seeing the officer distracted, Rockwell ducked behind the crate to his right.

"Húndàn!" Screamed Lieutenant Dai as the grenade exploded, launching the officer several feet across the tent. Seeing it was safe, Rockwell stepped out from hiding. He began to walk to the door. Passing by, he glanced at Lieutenant Dai. The man's legs were badly scorched and torn, and he had landed face down on a pallet loaded with jade artifacts and stolen jewelry.

"Use that for the new China, Mingyu." Rockwell mumbled in passing. He then exited the tent. It was time to get out of there.

Stepping outside, the chaotic scene surrounded Rockwell. The first thing to catch his eye was the marker of his objective, the crate pile near him. It was missing several boxes, and many others left were cracked open, their contents of mortar shells clearly visible.

He looked to his right. From the large rectangular medical tent, easily seen halfway across the camp, came a stream of Japanese soldiers, as men were rushing onto the new battlefield. Even if the battle had started more than a minute before, there were still more emerging from the tent door. Through the gaps of the tent city, he saw the occasional soldier running through the narrow walkways. All around him, small-scale fighting between men on either sides, be it with fist, knife, or gun, choked out his viable routes of escape. The Japanese had laid a trap, and Rockwell was stuck in the center of it. The only way out seemed to be where he came, straight ahead and back into the forest.

Rockwell took barely a step forward before he felt a pull from the sack of treasures slung on his back. In a moment, the doctor was yanked backwards with incredible force, falling to the ground on his posterior. He looked up to see his attacker, and there stood Private Luo. The big man’s round face, usually stern and indifferent, was uncharacteristically transformed by a toothy smile.

“Děng yīxià, wǒ lái jiěshì yīxià.” Asked Rockwell, needing just a moment to breathe and reassess.

“Bù.” Simply responded the soldier, denying the doctor’s request for a moment’s peace. His face turning to anger, Luo raised his foot high, intending to bring it back down on Rockwell. The doctor rolled to the side, avoiding the attack, and he started to scurry off to his left. Luo’s foot already on the ground, he swung it to the left as he drove it against Rockwell’s right side, making the doctor wince but giving the momentum for his crawl to make some distance from his attacker.

Rockwell faced the private. Luo ducked his head and charged towards the doctor in a shoulder bash. Rockwell quickly reached for his shoulder holster and drew his revolver. Before he could fire a shot, Luo collided with him at full force, knocking Rockwell backwards and sending his gun flying.

Both men thinking they’d found their trump card, Luo drew the pistol from his waist, and Rockwell retrieved the Scissors of the Golden Scaly Dragons, its handles sticking out from his sack. Luo aimed the pistol at Rockwell and cocked it, but, as he did so, the doctor brought the open blade of the scissors down on the barrel of the gun. As Luo pulled the trigger, the entire length of the barrel of his weapon was sheared off, and no shot fired.

Surprised, Luo threw his destroyed weapon to the side. With uncharacteristic reflexes, he caught Rockwell’s wrist as he tried to swing the golden scissors back up his abdomen, stopping himself from being cut in two. He squeezed with all his strength, his massive hands wrapping all the way around Rockwell’s lower forearm. Both men stared into each other’s eyes for several moments, each steeling their resolve facing down the other. Rockwell held onto the scissors for as long as possible, but Luo was far too strong, and the doctor was forced to drop his only weapon.

With the loss of the golden scissors, Rockwell was reinvigorated with survival instinct. With his free hand, he squarely punched Luo in the jaw, before getting two more good hits to the face. The guerrilla responded by using one hand to defend his head and the other to shove Rockwell away. Luo, a head taller than Rockwell and no longer filled with his typical stoicism, advanced on Rockwell. Both men exchanged blows for a short time, but Rockwell soon found himself becoming more battered and exhausted than his enemy. With the strength and reach advantage, Luo struck more often and harder, and both knew that the outcome of the fight was only a matter of time.

With Rockwell’s strength running low, he quit his backpedaling and pivoted forward. He struck Luo once in the face, and once in the chest. This seemed the last straw for the man, and he pounced on Rockwell, landing on top of him in the ground. Luo began to strangle Rockwell with both hands. Rockwell tried to free his neck with all his might, but found himself low on strength. Unable to stop the stranglehold, he used one hand to punch Luo in the face, but the guerrilla refused to let go.

Things started going fuzzy. Rockwell began to think his road had come to an end here, in the forests of Hubei. With little struggle left to avoid resignment to that fate, suddenly, the sound of a deafening explosion completely enveloped him, and all that he heard was white noise. Luo collapsed on top of Rockwell, and a violent force was shot through the guerrilla that felt as if it shoved Rockwell further into the ground. Smoke began to rise from Luo’s back, and the man released his stranglehold.

Rockwell pulled Luo's hands off his neck and took several deep breaths, desperate but happy to be alive. His stroke of luck pumping him with a new round of adrenaline, he rolled the big man's body off of him and stood up.

Rockwell's senses soon began to return with the airflow. Looking towards Luo, a massive burnt dent mark filled his entire upper back. Rockwell then turned towards the pile of crates. He saw a thin Japanese soldier, eyes closed and nearly doubled over. His hand was placed on an open crate of mortar shells.

Rockwell, his hearing returning, quickly made out what the soldier was doing. He was laughing the heartiest laugh the doctor had ever heard in all his adventures. Putting two and two together, Rockwell realized the soldier had tossed an active mortar shell squarely on Luo's back. If the guerrilla had not been such a big man, Rockwell would likely have died with him. And the enemy sergeant thought it was funniest thing. But that didn't all sink in with the doctor at once.

"Arigatō." Rockwell said shakily, still catching his breath. He meant it sincerely. The soldier had saved his life.

Hearing the word, the Japanese man straightened up. He thought Rockwell certainly would've been killed by the blast. He delayed a moment as he stared at the doctor, unsure of what to do. Coming to his senses, he then pulled another shell from the crate, and he tossed it at Rockwell.

The light whistle of the shell spelled doom for the doctor. Thinking quickly, and still full of adrenaline, he quickly lifted up the corpse of Luo and pressed it against himself where he stood. The guerrilla was nearly too much for the doctor to hold, and he certainly couldn't do it for long, but for the moment he had he braced himself against the body to the best of his ability.

As the bomb fell short of Rockwell, Luo took the brunt of the explosion and was sent flying to the side. The doctor was pushed to the ground and back several feet, being dragged along the grass by the force of the shell. Though dazed, bruised, and cut up, Rockwell was certainly still alive, and the Japanese man was eager to finish the job.

Rockwell knew he needed an out, and using dead men as shields would not cut it again. The soldier was soon to throw yet another shell, and his aim might've improved the second time. Rushedly scanning his surroundings, he looked to his left, and found that he'd stopped right next to the Scissors of the Golden Scaly Dragons, which had fallen to the ground before.

As the Japanese man reached for another mortar shell, Rockwell retrieved the golden scissors and rose to his feet. He rose it over his head, and threw it directly at the enemy's head like a tomahawk. Quick to his wits, the soldier ducked, and the scissors instead were lodged behind him in an unopened crate just above his head, the box just barely placed at the edge of a lower crate in a very precarious position.

"Naisushotto." Said the Japanese, chuckling. He pulled out another shell. Though he jested, he knew he had Rockwell beat.

Rockwell stood still, chuckling quietly to himself. The golden scissors, lodged in the crate's side, had shifted the balance of weight. As the soldier prepared to toss another shell, the crate impaled with the scissors fell from its place. It landed on the soldier's head, its heavy contents knocking him out cold as it fell on top of him. The shell fell from his hand, and exploded only to his harm as both he and it struck the ground.

Rockwell, pleased with himself, grinned and walked over to the body.

"Arigatō." He said, pulling the golden scissors from the crate. Placing it precariously once more in his sack, still having barely enough room as to have the handles stick out, he began to walk in the direction in which he came, finally ready to leave.

Rockwell moved quickly retracing his path. As he followed the route, he ducked and weaved through the cover of boxes and tents around the several fights taking place right in his way. He hid behind a crate before a Chinese man shoved his Japanese opponent down the way past Rockwell, and the doctor had a chance to scurry by without being involved in their knife fight. By passing these final two men, the only thing that was left between Rockwell and escape was the two-wheeled cart and the open hill it was placed on.

Coming near the cart, suddenly, Rockwell was shoved from behind, seemingly bashed with the end of a narrow object. He was pushed into the cart, landing face first but quick to flip onto his back and see his attacker.

Above him stood a glaring Japanese soldier. He was holding his gun by the barrel, having been using it as a club. The man, baring his teeth, adjusted his grip and raised the rifle to his shoulder, aiming at Rockwell. As the soldier slid the bolt forward, Rockwell rolled to the other side of the tiny cart. The soldier fired, but missed, creating a hole in the center of the shoddy cart's wooden floor, previously only covered with hay. As the ferocious man slammed another round into the chamber, Rockwell covered his face with his arms, before another shot rang out.

Rockwell opened his eyes and moved his arms. Blood was leaking from his attacker's head. The man fell to his right. Rockwell, still on edge, could only catch his breath for a moment as he heard a courageous war cry. Lieutenant Chen ran up to where the dead man once stood, quickly retrieving the Japanese rifle now laying on the floor. He raised it to his shoulder and took aim at Rockwell. The doctor braced for impact once again, but a crack rang out and Chen's head whipped to the left in a moment. He had been shot too, and, as he fell to the ground, he dropped the rifle at Rockwell's feet.

Rockwell, confused, sat up to figure out what had just happened. The lighting at the camp's edge was barely sufficient. Turning to his left, he saw men in Japanese caps crouched under a watchtower and surrounded by metal barrels for cover. They had their rifles slung over the barrels, aiming straight down the hill. They had certainly been watching for any guerrilla attempting to escape down the hill. The barrels emanated a pungent odor of oil.

To Rockwell's right, he saw men wearing peasant clothes, those he knew as Chinese guerrillas, ready with their rifles placed over a pile of crates. They must've been carrying the munitions out of the camp before the fighting had pinned them down, so they'd set up shop where they stood. The crates, certainly full of munitions and explosives, were now makeshift cover.

For a moment, the screams and gunshots filling the air seemed to cease all at once. All was quiet for a moment.

Crack!

Rockwell, having set his sack of treasures aside, quickly ducked down into the cover of the cart, laying flat on his back so the short walls on either side shielded him. The singular shot was only the first of many, as the Chinese and Japanese realized the presence of the other. All hell broke loose as a storm of fire opened up just above Rockwell's head. He was stuck right in the middle of a firefight, and worse, low shots began to chip away at his cover. Once it was destroyed, there'd be no protection from the crossfire.

Pinned, Rockwell knew his only escape was the cart. He began pushing his body against the vehicle, banging into it with all his strength, but it wouldn't budge. Even pushing off of the ground just in front of his cover was no good. Pressure began to mount, as every lousy shot allowed either enemy to lower their aim even more. One stray round could spell the end to the doctor's adventures.

Looking to see what was stopping him, Rockwell peeked his eye through the hole created by the dead Japanese attacker's rifle shot. In the dim light, he saw wooden blocks placed on each of the cart's wheels. They were the obstacles keeping it in place.

In a snap decision, Rockwell jumped up to move the blocks by hand. He only could sit up for a moment, but he was able to glance briefly at the combatants. In what he could see, both sides were assembling machine guns, be it their own or stolen. Though they were both not set up yet, the mere rifle fire forced Rockwell to snap back to his senses and lie back into cover as a bullet zipped just past his nose.

Rockwell knew that when those machine guns got firing, they'd tear through his flimsy fortress in mere seconds, the old wood already on its last legs. Yet, there was no way to move the blocks without facing the same fate as the two dead men at his feet. For a moment, he thought that the situation was impossible.

But Rockwell did not survive all his adventures by giving up. Scanning the area within arm's reach, only one tool was available: the rifle two men had tried to gun him down with. The firearm now laying at his feet, he carefully pulled it into his cover. Through the chips in the cart's side he saw the tops of the heads of the tallest Japanese and Chinese soldiers. Rockwell coughed several times as he began to be overpowered by the smell of oil, the bullet-ridden barrels used for cover by the Japanese leaking heavily.

Rockwell stopped for a moment. He knew he couldn't fight his way out, and going out in a blaze of glory seemed less than ideal. There had to be another way.

Thinking quickly, Rockwell found his final lifeline. He held the gun like a club and huddled up against as much cover as he could. Using all his strength, the doctor brought the butt of the rifle down on the little hole in the floor of the cart.

Crash.

The wood gave way a little, warping downwards. Rockwell gave it another hit.

Crash.

It broke up a little more. Rockwell, his face lit up, bashed the floor once more.

Crash!

A hole the size of the rifle’s butt was opened where the little spot once was. His smirk growing, Rockwell adjusted his grip and slid the barrel of the gun through the hole. Holding the rifle from the butt, the doctor could just barely reach the blocks with the muzzle. He struggled for a moment, making several attempts to move the left block to the side properly. Peeking his head up slightly towards the Japanese, their machine gun was nearly fully assembled. The Chinese were certainly not far behind.

With a final push, he found success. The first block was out of the way, and only the right one remained. As he positioned the rifle to move the final block away, Rockwell had a realization. He'd certainly be exposed as he rolled away, and there would be no defense from the potshots of both armies. As he thought about this, both armies were placing their fully assembled Nambu machine guns on top of their cover.

Rockwell reached into his bag and retrieved the Luobao Jingqian, the Treasure Defeating Gold Coin. When thrown into the air, it could stop arrows and magic bolts. The doctor gave the coin a kiss for luck and tossed it upwards. Then, as the machine gun crews of his enemies had their fingers on the trigger, he shoved the final wooden block away with his gun, and off the cart went down the hill. The sudden jerking motion of the cart beginning its roll pulled the rifle under the hole. His hands now free, the doctor hung on to the shattered sides of his vehicle and braced himself for what could be an abrupt, violent stop.

As Rockwell began moving, several soldiers turned to fire at his cart. Unbeknownst to them, their task was impossible. The Treasure Defeating Gold Coin activated, floating and vibrating in the air. The artifact then froze every shot aimed at Rockwell, suspending their rounds in the air just past the soldiers' vision. They vibrated just like the coin, still full of their previous momentum. Unaware of the futility of their actions, crouched men fired both at Rockwell and their enemies. Indeed, even the machine gunners, entranced by handling such a powerful weapon, seemed to ignore their tracers freezing en route to their targets. Hundreds of frozen rounds filled the air in moments.

As Rockwell raced far away from the scene of the battle, the gold coin's effect ran its course, and it fell to the ground inert. Without the coin's power, all at once, every bullet suspended in the air zipped to its target at once. Hundreds of tiny powder kegs crashed into the Japanese already crumpled and leaking oil barrels on one side, and even more barraged the splintered and nearly destroyed crates of shells and munitions hoarded by the Chinese. The unintentional bomb created by the two armies could take the abuse no longer, and both the oil barrels and the munitions crates exploded at once in a spectacular fireball. The inferno, consuming the two groups of fighting men, rose into the air, signaling to all the disaster that had consumed them.

Finishing his bumpy ride down a particularly rock-laden stretch of the hill, the cart quickly slowed down as the side not supported by wheels acted as brakes for the vehicle as it dug into the earth. Rockwell briefly turned to glance at the fireball he had created up the hill. He chuckled slightly, then, keeping his mind on escape, jumped up from his seat and broke into a sprint for the cover of the woods. It felt something fell out of his bag, but he had no time to look back.

“Tomare!” A voice shouted from the woods. As Rockwell was just about to enter the treeline, a Japanese soldier jumped up in front of him from his hiding spot. He brandished his rifle, tipped with a shining bayonet, and with a crazed look in his eye began to run towards Rockwell. The doctor tried to avoid him, turning sharply for another spot on the treeline. But, just as he was about to escape from the field, another Japanese man, a sergeant based on the insignia on his shoulder, emerged from the brush. Rockwell had no time to react as the man bashed him in the stomach with his rifle's butt, knocking him doubled-over on his back.

On the ground, Rockwell instinctually curled up and covered his face as the soldier let loose several cruel kicks into his side, back, and head. The sergeant accompanied his abuse with twisted laughs, bordering on cackling. The doctor had only a brief time to consider fighting back, as he saw the other soldier rush over to his comrade. He raised his rifle, ready to plunge his bayonet into the man on the ground. Rockwell braced himself.

“Yamete! Baka-tomo!” A gruff, authoritative voice yelled from the forest. Rockwell was relieved to see both his attackers turn away from him and towards the treeline. Both of them shouldered their weapons and stood at attention. In a few short moments, a furious man stomped over to the young soldiers and slapped each of them across the face. He began to scream at them in Japanese, letting them know just how foolish they were.

“You didn’t need to call them idiots,” Rockwell said with a cough, “They were just doing their jobs.” The angry man, clearly an officer, looked down at Rockwell. He surprised the doctor by lightly laughing.

“You speak my language.” The officer stated, speaking in a strange accent, mixing the speech mannerisms of the Japanese and the South English.

“And you speak mine.” Rockwell responded matter-of-factly. “You went to school abroad?”

“Oxford. Class of 1932.”

"No kidding. What'd you study?" At this, the Japanese man's face lit up slightly.

"I was a student of history, with a focus on East Asia in the late classical and early modern periods. I wrote my dissertation on the Great Unifier Oda-"

"Nobunaga!" Rockwell butted in. Humanizing himself with his captor would probably be the best way to avoid ending up with a bullet in the head. "What a man! The Sengoku period was maybe the best thing I studied back at Berkeley, certainly more interesting than when we started slogging through the Tokugawa Shogunate. God, I hated that." The officer did his best, but could not contain a little smile.

"Really? You also studied the Far East? I can only hope you learned in class that while samurai in battle are honorable and glorious, there is also value to the unity and order in peace."

"I understand that. I was just a dumb college kid, is all." He paused for a moment. "I have to ask, how did you get into Oxford? Your family is well off?” The officer’s softened expression turned sour.

“What is that to you?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Rockwell internally kicked himself for that misstep. Nobody spoke for a moment, until the officer continued.

“You may get up now, unless you wish to continue lying in the dirt.” Rockwell rose from the ground, finally getting an eye-to-eye look at the officer. He was nearly the doctor’s height, rising above most of the men they were surrounded by. His clean green khaki uniform, kept to the tee of Japanese military standards, spoke for itself his dedication to his occupation and country. His sharp features were accentuated by the dim orange glow of the massive fire raging on the top of the hill. Above all, his strong, piercing eyes projected power and authority that not even Lieutenant Dai could achieve when pointing a gun at a man. That power and authority was accentuated all the more by the half dozen Japanese soldiers emerging from the brush and standing side by side with their officer. Even if Rockwell was clearly unarmed, two of them always kept their rifle trained on the foreigner.

The officer cleared his throat and pointed at the inferno. The Japanese, victorious in the battle, had begun to deploy fire brigades to quench the flame.

“This is your handiwork?” He asked.

“I played no part in any of this.” The officer chuckled at Rockwell's claim.

“Liar.” With nowhere left to go in this conversation, Rockwell fell back on his training.

“I am an American national. The United States and the Japanese Empire are not at a state of war. If I am harmed-” The officer cut him off.

“You can face serious consequences in a domestic or international court of law, or even extradition to the United States to face justice.” He finished. Even as Rockwell kept a poker face, he was taken aback. How did this random officer know the immunity spiel? The Japanese man continued.

"No sir, I know the little speech you've been taught to give upon capture. Your allegiance is not with America, even if both her and your masters share the same cowardly and decadent tendencies. You are one of…them." The officer spat out his final word with derision, his previously amused expression beginning to twist into a disgust his enlisted men shared. He too had finally considered the fact that, at least in his eyes, Rockwell had surrendered like a coward.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Rockwell feigned. The officer sighed, and continued with more frustration in his voice.

"We thought you'd come while the army was away, and we planned for an armed escort to come with you. But with those degenerates, communists-" The officer spoke that word with so much hate and distrust that it was like saying it was the worst taboo, "-? Even that we thought was below you gang of thieves. What made you think you could rob Japan of her rightful treasures under her nose?" The officer spoke with clear restrained anger, like a father chastising his son. Rockwell exhaled deeply. It was clear the man would not be fooled.

"So the jig is up, huh?"

The officer nodded lightly. At that, Rockwell felt a strange peace.

"I don't think we've properly been introduced. My name is Silas Rockwell, Doctor and Field Agent of the SCP Foundation." The officer nodded again.

"Captain Masuya Kobayashi, Imperial Japanese Anomalous Matters Examination Agency ." Captain Masuya said it like he was going to accompany his statement with a salute. Speaking to a foreign dog, he, of course, restrained himself.

"IJAMEA? I'm glad to say I'm quite familiar."

"Oh? What have you come to know about the agency? Please, speak your mind." Knowing that, because he hadn't been killed yet, and that he probably was wanted alive, a little bit of snark bled through his filter.

"I know you're the fanatics of the fanatics. The naval and army schools recommend only the most crazy about the empire to you." Captain Masuya dropped whatever was left of his cordial smile, then, raising his gloved hand, slapped Rockwell across the face. Silas took a moment before turning again to face the officer.

“You asked for honesty.”

"'Patriotic' is the word we look for, Dr. Rockwell. Only those with the Yamato-damashii of ten men have the honor to serve the Emperor's Agency." Neither man spoke for a moment before Rockwell continued.

"So that's why those guys barely fought back when we came in, huh? They were the most 'patriotic'? They had the most ‘Japanese spirit?’"

"Yes. It is a shame we lost such brave men today, and an even greater one you dishonor them now, but it was necessary for victory." Masuya thought for a moment, then laughed mockingly.

"How did your superiors not notice such an obvious trap?"

Rockwell took a moment before responding. "They never told me much. I was just told to go find the tent with your anomalies, that a stacked box of crates would mark it, and that there would be almost no one to stop me."

"Your superiors didn't even tell you how they learned of classified army plans?" Rockwell shook his head. He was told that the Japanese would be away and why, but he didn't know where the info came from. Captain Masuya snorted and spat to his side.

"Typical treacherous western dogs. Our superiors came together not long ago to discuss the movements of the emperor's army. Your leading men claimed they wanted to know such information so they could follow leads on suspected artifacts without coming into our crossfire. But this is not the first case of Foundation deceit. We spoiled them with information, where individual divisions would come and go in the recent weeks, and specifics of our camps, even which ones held our treasures. Then is when we told them the entire army you've just robbed from would be away on the attack tonight. And so we lay in wait for you, certain you would come on this night." Rockwell kept a brave face, but inside, he felt his heart drop. He had been the fool all along.

“And you decided to stay out of the fighting by hiding in the forest?” Rockwell asked with some disdain, wishing to earn back a little of his bruised pride.

“Do not get brazen with me. My assignment was to seize or kill fleeing enemies of Japan. I have fulfilled my orders.” Masuya answered, more defensively than angrily. Rockwell waited a moment before speaking again.

"So, what happens now?" Silas asked. Masuya remained firm.

"You will come with us to Tokyo, and you will tell us everything you know. That's the best you deserve-" the captain paused for a moment, "-thief."

Masuya then noticed a golden glimmer maybe 20 feet behind Rockwell created by the warm glow of the flame on the hill, which was now losing the battle with the firecrews. Masuya walked over to it, his men following closely behind him. Now Rockwell turned to face back up the hill. There was no physical thing left between him and the forest, but two soldiers still kept aim at the doctor. The captain reached down and picked up the Scissors of the Golden Scaly Dragons. That must've been what Rockwell dropped from his bag.

"And it is all for this? You have become a thief, an enemy of Japan for the Kogane no Hasami? Was it worth it, Mr. Rockwell? What can your Foundation do with this?"

"The Jinjiao Jian? I was simply following orders to take it. You know a thing or two about that." Masuya scowled at this remark.

"No Chinese name will be used for an object in the service of the empire. Come. We are returning to camp." The captain then turned to walk back up the hill. Several of his men also began returning up the hill, but the two still aiming their rifles at Rockwell stayed in place and motioned with their weapons for the doctor to join them.

"And my bag?" Rockwell asked.

"Not even the lowliest servant of the emperor is below you. You will return it to its rightful place yourself." Masuya replied, not stopping his walk. Though a statement intended to be intimidating, it, along with the fire on the hill, suddenly gave Rockwell an idea.

"Now hold on a second, captain." Rockwell said. "I think you should know this before your men go through my bag."

"What?" Replied Masuya, his patience worn thin by the American. He turned to face the prisoner, sneering down his nose from his elevated stance on the hill.

Taking a few steps forward, Rockwell closed a bit of the distance. Rockwell then pulled his sack to his stomach, and he briefly dug through it. He then pulled a little jade teapot, the Wanya Hu, out of his bag. Captain Masuya was the only one to react, the sharp daggers in his eyes becoming dull at the sight. Rockwell removed the lid of the pot.

"Happō se-!" Was all Captain Masuya managed to get out before he was knocked to the ground. However, instead of firing their weapons as ordered, the soldiers, just like their commanding officer, were all knocked about and to the dirt by the mass of flaming crows unleashed by the Wanya Hu. Dozens of burning birds, all spewing from one opening, flew panicked into the Japanese, their caws mingling with screams of pain and desperation from their victims. The crows pecked at the men as if a finger through water, and their talons sliced at them as a knife through butter. All the while, their infernal bodies burned any man they touched. The soldiers were nearly powerless as they tried to swat away the avians with their hands and rifles.

Rockwell, seeing his chance, struggled to cap the Wanya Hu. After beating an obstructive crow's head back into the pot with the lid, he finally sealed the item's power once more. He then made a break for the woods, his would-be jailers unable to stop him. A few soldiers from the top of the hill took shots at the doctor, but no man in the IJAMEA was such a good shot. Rifle rounds kicking up dust behind him, Rockwell ducked into the treeline, out of their sight.

Soldiers from the camp rushed from their old fire in order to extinguish the new one engulfing their brothers in arms. They ran down with water buckets, shovelfuls of dirt, and coats, spilling soil and water as they ran at full speed. In a short time, some reached their struggling comrades, and they swatted at the birds with shovels and coats. The crows were driven back a bit from the wounded on the ground. The bucket brigades came soon after, and dumped cool water onto the writhing soldiers. Water seemed to be the crow's undoing, and those doused in it were washed off to the side, seemingly dead. The remaining animals then flew off into the night, looking as if they lost their flaming properties as they disappeared out of sight.

The saviors of the soldiers called for stretcher bearers quickly, the wounded in critical condition. Most of the men seemed dead on the spot; Captain Masuya was still breathing, though deeply struggling each second.

"Masuya senchō!" An enlisted man exclaimed as he took in the sight of the captain.

In the dark woods, Rockwell patted the bag on his back; good, it didn't seem to be missing anything else. The Jinjiao Jian would have to be an acceptable loss. He still held the Wanya Hu for defense, but with every passing second, it seemed more and more likely the IJAMEA were not following him. He knew where the Foundation safehouse was, and it would take him a day to get there, so Rockwell decided he could walk for a bit.

The artillery ceased as the doctor walked. Even after his night's excitement, the battle between the Chinese Nationalists and the Imperial Japanese Army was just beginning. The battle cries of men were heard faintly from where Rockwell stood, certainly infantry rising from their dugouts to meet the enemy, but he had no intention to join them. His battle was over for tonight. As far as Rockwell was concerned, he had a rest and a drink in order when he returned home.

As Rockwell thought further, he realized that he may have fought his battle for the day, but, like a soldier, it would certainly not be his last. The only question was when he would next be put in the field for another adventure.

He stopped for a moment. Rockwell thought again. He decided that they could put a raise on top of that drink.

Silas Rockwell will return in "Silas Rockwell and the Heavenly Reflection".