Names Stricken - SCP Foundation

Dramatis Personae

Our narrator, JAMES NO-NAME, abandoned to the Fundamentum at the tender age of seven, now eleven and studying at the Arcana Institute of Xerophylla to become a Phlegm Trooper and fight the hordes of Darkest Evropa

LI, a redheaded young woman who is of the Social Fire in the Blood Class at the Arcana Institute.

ASHEWORT NOWAK, a vain young man who perhaps has hidden depths, who has been groomed all his life to stand as a noble of the Burning Hollow in the Choler Class.

ALLISON, of the Sorrow Fall and the Bile Class. Daughter of a Professor at the Arcana Institute.

COLE THEREVEN, of the noble Vissonvir Therevens, who has elected to join the Academy and become a Phlegm Trooper.

PROFESSOR LIGHT, Matron of the Phlegm Class. James's current guardian. May or may not have a mysterious connection to Friar Clef… and Christ.

THE STRICKEN PROFESSOR, who shall be revealed…

The Story So Far:

The Beginning: Our narrator, James, is abandoned at Holy Site-6248 and adopted by the kindly Friar Alto Clef, who raises him in the ways of the Fundamentum but also in the forbidden lore of Jesus Christ.

The Start of the Journey: Upon coming of age, James and the Friar set out on the open road to the Arcana Institute, where he meets the people who will shape his years to come…

Education: At the Institute, James begins to learn the truth of the world and the powers that he shall one day call upon.

The endless night whiled away, the moon turning in the sky, bringing tides of red and black.

At the end of our first month at the Arcana Institute, Professor Dan announced we would begin formal military skirmishes and training exercises.

"All of you need to be battle-ready, even if you aren't doomed to war," he said. "Every single one of you. We'll be breaking you up into squads and assigning you to the Divisions."

"I don't know why I'm here," Ashewort Nowak whined from his high seat performatively. "Why am I, a Burning Hollow, trying to sheepishly fight—"

"Because, you little idiot," Professor Dan said, "If you don't know how to fight, then when you need to it'll be too late to learn."

"But I—"

"I was of the Social Fire, when I came to this place," Professor Dan said. "I was an aristocrat. I had more wealth and power than those of the Burning Hollow could ever dream of. You know where that got me? You know why I'm teaching you little suckers?"

Nobody responded. Those of the Social Fire seemed rather uncomfortable.

"I went too far — did something that violated the Fundamentum's provisions for those of my class — and I got exiled here. Not true exile, like Ben Kondracki, because in the end I was more useful as a teacher and a thinker than a footsoldier. But Ben didn't fear the blade — he studied it, in fact, when all his fellows were having youthful dalliances and making merriment — and that's how he's still a legend despite his disgrace."

I was wondering what any of this had to do with anything, and from the sneer on Ashewort's face, he found the matter of little import.

"Ben Kondracki. What rubbish. Is that name supposed to mean anything?"

Professor Dan sighed.

"You may have heard of him by another name. The Dragonrider."

I did not know the significance of the name then. Friar Clef had told me of his old comrades who had fought besides him, but only in vague allusion and often with levels of familiarity that I would not recognize in my professors. He spoke of wise Sophia who wielded a sword of light, and it would be years before I realized he had spoken of the very same Sophia who was Professor Light, Matron of the Phlegm. Old Cog, who struck ruthlessly and mercilessly upon the field of battle, seemed so utterly distant from the distant and detached Headmaster Gears. He had regaled me of their tales of valor and trickery and, at times, sorrow.

But of the Dragonrider, or of Ben Kondracki, he had spoken not at all. For once I was more ignorant than my peers. And it was only later, much later, when I had tasted of the fraternal love between brothers-in-arms, and the romantic love between men and men, and between men and women, that I realized this was not for some lack of valor, but because of a deep and lingering sorrow in his heart.

"Alright," Ashewort Nowak said. "I'll participate in your stupid little skirmishes. But don't blame me if people get actually hurt."

Professor Dan chuckled. "Kid, collateral damage is the name of the game here at the Institute. But don't worry. We haven't had a tragic accident before Arcana Selection in decades."

"This is just my luck," Li grumbled under her breath.

She glanced at me furtively, and then heaved a heavy sigh and said her next words out of rote obligation: "No offense, James."

I didn't blame her. Somehow, we had been grouped with Ashewort Nowak and Cole Thereven and assigned to Arch Division.

I caught Allison's eye, and she gave me a curt nod. She was acting as our subcommander in Arch Division, as part of her duties as Professor Dan's teaching assistant.

I didn't fully understand the Division system, or why it was fully necessary. The Arcana Institute was divided into three divisions: Arch Division, Pillar Division, and Gate Division. Each had an even mix from among all students, though mostly junior students were to fight other juniors, and senior students were to fight seniors.

In each Division, we were grouped into Squads of five — two of Phlegm, one of Choler, one of Blood, and one of Bile. Cole and I were the Phlegm, Ashewort was the Choler, and Li was the Blood. Our Bile squad leader was Dora Cat, though as a Bileturd she got to spend more time learning strategy from Professor Dan. She reported to our subcommander Allison.

We had, through a series of unfortunate events, been nicknamed "the Kitty Cats."

""Alright, kitties," Allison said, singling us out. "The five of you are going to be on the first rotation. Nothing too intense. Go for a patrol around the Institute, take notes of literally everything you see, and Dora will bring those notes to me."

"Why are we kitties?" Ashewort whined. "I'm not a—"

Li smacked the back of the head as Dora kicked his shin. He crumpled over in pain.

"Dora will pass them on to me, and we'll point out important things you might have missed. This isn't meant to be too intense or too taxing — but you need a baseline for what the Institute looks like at night, and you need to practice and hone your skills of perception."

Li and Cole looked rather thoughtful at hearing that. Dora smirked, her mouth a :3 face, as if she already knew just how to do these things. Ashewort stared upwards at the roof of the Battle Hall resentfully, massaging himself.

I for one believed it and understood it well. You see, once Friar Clef had pointed out the shape of the Phlegmfont to me, I hated myself for not realizing sooner. The Holy Bible of Christ was embarrassingly explicit about what crosses were. I would have to improve my perception, if I was to face the Hordes of Darkest Evropa and live to tell the tale.

After our third meal of waking, we arranged to meet outside of the Grand Hall. When Cole and I arrived, Dora and Li were already there. Dora was telling Li about a pagan pantheon of gods from the land of Greaze, and Li was pretending to sound interested.

"So why didn't you try to make our squad the Wise Owls, instead of the Kitty Cats?" Li said.

Dora practically purred at her. "Because, Li, you and I are both kind of feline, aren't we?"

Li smirked at her. It didn't reach her eyes. "I don't know what that means."

"Hi," I said dumbly.

"Hi," Cole also said dumbly. "We're sticking together, right?"

"Of course," Dora said. "This is a test of my leadership ability, but I think that's a really good idea, Colin."

"It's Cole."

"Sorry, Cal. I think it would be a really good idea for us to stick together so we don't have anything to worry about."

I nodded. The grounds of the Arcana Institute were pretty safe, but the fact of the matter is that when alone, everyone dies in the dark.

Just then Ashewort Nowak showed up.

"I think we should split up," he said. "I, of the Burning Hollow, am strong enough to do my patrols by myself. I can cover half of it, and all the rest of you weaklings…"

I had no objection to this. Li rolled her eyes, while Dora pursed her lips, but didn't seem too upset.

"Come on, Ashe!" Cole said. "We're going to be seeing a lot of each other! Do you really want to be all on your own? For the rest of your life?"

"They dared to lay hands on my person," Ashewort said. "They dared to touch me, Ashewort Nowak, of the Ancient and Noble Bloodline of Nowak—"

"I don't get full credit if we split up," Dora said. "And if I don't get full credit, it means I can throw you under the bus so that you don't get full credit either. Which means bad stuff."

"Oh, spare me, you pagan," Ashewort sneered. "You think I care about grades?"

"I think," Dora said, "that you care about getting to be an armchair magician instead of battle fodder."

"I don't have to worry about that," Li said, looking at her fingernails. "Perks of the Social Flame over the Burning Hollow."

"What, because you share answers through your mindfire during tests?"

"No, because they like us more."

Ashewort fumed. "Fine. I'll play along."

Cole and I, of course, had no such considerations. We were doomed to battle either way. Though if he was lucky, Cole would get to be a cook or entertainer. Such was the life of the working class, to waste our health for the elite in whatever form.

Beneath the Light of the Moon.

The grounds of the Arcana Institute were as dark as they always were. The moon was a sliver on this night, so the grounds were less red than usual, and the Arcana Lamps cast their iridescent glow, spectral greens and purples dancing across the campus. I led the way, and Cole guarded our rear. Ashewort and Li guarded our flanks, with Dora in the center of us all.

The night was quiet, silent except for our footsteps on the solid black stone of the Great Spyres and the floors of the Arcana Institute, and the occasional distant screech of a U-Mouthed Gluck Gluck Owl. Whenever the owl's echoing hoot reached our ears, Dora would perk up and look into the distance, before regaining her composure. I was not the only one to take note of this; Ashewort started snickering the third or so time she did so, only to be silenced by her threatening to claw his face.

"Can we just get this over with?" Li said in a high whisper. "Honestly, I don't want to have to do this again."

"There's nothing out here," Ashewort said. "Just the building. Just stone and moon and darkness. So much pointless darkness."

"I thought you were of the Burning Hollow, shouldn't you be used to this by now?"

"It's not pointless," Cole said, oddly thoughtful, as he gazed out into the distance. "The moonlight, you can tell, it's red. It's beautiful, in a certain way. My parents told me that twelve generations or so ago, the moon was white. Can you imagine how cold and empty its light would have been? But now, in this thirteenth generation, wherever we go, the color of the moon is like the red of a hearth."

A breeze blew past us. I wondered what he would say next.

"Could you imagine a world where there was hot light coming from the sky? Imagine how dry it would be. All the moss on the ground, the mushrooms, they'd dry up and shrivel. The air would be hot and dry and painful. We probably wouldn't be here, right now, in this moment. A moment that I'm glad to share with the four of you."

Oh, how cruel fate was. How cruel it was, to Cole of the Therevens. A child so pure as to seek this fate for himself out of the goodness of his heart, with the passion to share all that he was with the world. And to know what fate awaited him, from the grisly tales of Friar Clef.

"…Well of course we wouldn't be here," Ashewort said. "If Yvith hadn't gone mad, then she wouldn't have unleashed the Darkest Hordes upon Darkest Evropa, and we wouldn't need to fight them."

"You're worse than Willie Wettle," Li said. "I thought he was insufferable."

Dora looked at Cole sadly. "It's almost a waste you'll be going out there to fight as Phlegm."

"Nothing is wasted," Cole said. "Not if you believe in it."

We could have stood there for hours, as the moon fell beneath the horizon and the Arcana Lamps flickered away. We could have, had we not been interrupted.

"What's that?" Li said, pointing at a crumpled figure on the ground. I could not tell you if it had been there a minute before.

I immediately sprang into action. I could feel the Phlegm of Christ buzzing through my muscles and my nerves, telling me that something was wrong. And yet, my thinking mind chided me. This could be mere excitement that something had happened on my first patrol. An unwary child's reaction to danger.

Cole immediately joined me by my side. He pulled out his slingshot, which he called "Honesty", because honesty was the key to good communication, and good communication won wars.

"Maybe we should get a professor," Ashewort Nowak said.

"Don't be silly," I heard myself saying. "We're on patrol, aren't we? We're supposed to take care of things here."

I approached, Cole by my side. The figure was wrapped in robes of black cloth, like some foul demon. It had a shock of deep red hair upon its head, and all the skin on its face was missing.

"Ashewort's right," Dora said. "Ashewort, stay here to give them support. I'll send up a flare on the Arcana Lamp network. Come on, Li."

The girls went to get help, and Cole and I continued looking at the crumpled figure.

I could not tell whether it was alive or dead. I had never seen a dead body before, but it seemed to me that no human could survive having the skin on its face ripped off, exposing all the muscle. It lay there, completely lifeless. There was a pendant around its neck, with a jewel inset, glinting the color of the moon. Cole reached towards it, but I held him back.

"Don't," I said. "Maybe that's what killed it."

And then its eyes jolted open.

We stumbled back, all three of us, Cole, Ashewort, me.

"Children…" it said, shambling towards us, arms grasping towards us in a twisted parody of benediction. "I can show you a world… where the sun is back… I can show you the truth…"

"Get away… get away!" Ashewort shouted nervously.

"They're lying to you… the Fundamentum wants to churn you into paste… throw you away… your precious, precious lives away… They're telling you stories, lies about why they want you to fight…"

"What's… what's the truth?" I found myself asking. Perhaps this man was a Christian of another sort, some master of forbidden lore. This time, Cole grabbed me, tried to pull me back, but I stood there, shaking them off, even as Ashewort and Cole stumbled even further back.

"I can show you…" the walking corpse said.

"Just… touch my keystone and all shall become clear…"

And he raised the pendant towards me. I found myself reaching towards it, reaching my hand towards that gem that caught the light of the moon and the pale Arcanagleam of the lamps, found myself reaching towards the truth—

And then a glowing sword, shining a white so pure it blinded my eyes, severed the corpse's arm.

Its arm fell to the ground, the amulet clattering against the rock of the Great Spyre, and it screamed. A terrible, maniacal scream, echoing throughout the Arcana Institute, becoming a gluttering when the glowing sword slashed through its throat. No blood spurted forth, only the heaving of dry air.

Then it fell to the ground. It dissolved, becoming particles of shadow that vanished into the night. The amulet hissed, releasing black streams of smoke into the night. It collapsed into a puddle, in the shape of an Arcana card, with numbers inscribed within it, before that, too, vanished, becoming nothingness.

And there, radiant in the aura of the glowing blade, was its wielder. Professor Light.

She clutched the glowing sword tightly in one hand. Her golden hair was down, billowing gently in the stirring night wind, and she was wearing a white robe that flowed about her like a moonlit cloud.

As I was mesmerized by her radiance, she held the sword to my throat.

"Are you in there?" she hissed. Then her features softened. "Of course not. It vanished into the darkness, with the husk."

The sword vanished, the light fading, leaving no blade behind, only a card in Professor Light's hands and a bead of blood on my neck. It too had been a weapon called forth from an Arcana. She returned it to her robes before I could get a better look at it.

"What… what was that?" Ashewort said. "Why did you— I'm going to tell my father about this!"

"Damien Nowak knows the risks of this place," Professor Light said. "And it surprises me that he did not inform his only son and heir of one of the greatest of them."

"What was that?" Cole said. "My parents never mentioned it either."

Li and Dora seemed similarly ignorant.

"A foul demon whose taint remains over this place," Professor Light said. "Every moment of every year, we risk confronting its legacy. A stealer of forms. A corrupter of all things good in this place. We dare not speak its name — but we all know it. The Stricken Professor."

Professor Light brought us to her office, where she shared with us some biscuits. For Cole and I she poured each a glass of Yvithphlegm. Though the liquid was cold, it soothed my soul as I felt it coating the inside of my esophagus.

It had been a tragic coincidence that our first patrol had coincided with the first manifestation of the perennial blight on the Arcana Institute's grounds for the year: The Stricken Professor.

The Stricken Professor — Professor Light found it caused her too much sorrow to refer to it by its original name— had been one of their holy number — a Professor at the Arcana Institute, with all the honors and accolades that entailed. The creature had fought bravely at their side the Hordes of Darkest Evropa and the Kiwis of Terra Australis. But upon graduation, the Stricken Professor had not been satisfied with mere retirement to scholasticism and education.

The Stricken Professor had started beningly enough. It had bound its soul to the mortal world, in strong violation of the interplay of He-Who-Made-Light and She-Who-Made-Dark. In our youth, the mere act of seeking immortality was anathema, associated with vampires and their dreadful ilk. I would learn far later that it was not immortality itself that was corrupt. In fact, those who had their souls bound to Arcana cards were immortal in a sense — we could only die particularly heroic or particularly just deaths, which was why the Institute was so cavalier with our safety. So at the time I did not question the inherent corruption of the act, and yet in the following years there arose in me a grim clarity:

Why would an immortal seek further immortality?

To become ungovernable on earth, and escape the law of heaven.

(True eternal life, instead of some cursed half-life, was only possible through Christ.)

The Stricken Professor hadn't stopped there. It had investigated four ancient demons, whose powers far surpassed the pactbound fae of the modern day. The Jack of Hearts, Lahir, Manipulator of Lust. The Jack of Clubs, Lankelt, Bringer of Wrath. The Jack of Spades, Hektare, Bearer of Agony. The Jack of Diamonds, Ogre, Harbinger of Despair.

Professor Light told us that it had tried to bind these into its personal Arcana Matrix, mingling the very essence of the Four Jacks with the sulfur of its soul instead of integrating them into the outer Paradigm. I barely followed what she had meant by that. It was only years later that I understood the magnitude of the crime: To bind oneself with the world itself, to allow the power to change one's own nature, and in doing so reshape the world in one's own image unnaturally.

For when we keep our Arcana in our outer paradigm, we govern it. But allow it into the soul, and it governs us instead. And yet breaking that barrier of the soul, exposing one's self so purely to the outside world is a fast and twisted way to transcend barriers, to exert the gravity of ego upon the outside world.

The Stricken Professor had been a foul demon who had abused his position at the Institute to commit a number of crimes, until he had done crimes against nature so vile that the Fundamentum itself had tried to erase him from memory.

But his experiments had given him a way to cling on to life, through his forbidden Arcana, and so every year, under the Shawl of night, he would return and try to steal the forms of soldiers, and every year the Professors would slay him. It was very fortunate, Professor Light had said, scratching at her collar, that none of us had been turned. And she said, very sternly to me in particular, that I should never consider touching magical artifacts held by deeply suspicious beings.

I assented. I had almost given in to an incredibly lax lapse of judgment, and lost myself completely. Yet still my mind was elsewhere.

The creature's offers of the truth had been deceptions, but I had discovered another. For when Professor Light was scratching at her collar, with her spike-scarred hands, I saw another faint scar.

The faintest scar in the shape of a cross.

Three Lessons for Endless Night

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