Agent Calendar's Hot Date: Divine Intervention - SCP Foundation

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F.A.Q.

The Las Vegas strip was spread outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Director’s Office. The sun was setting, framing the mountains surrounding the city in daubs of pretty purples and pinks. Had the Director been at his desk, he might have turned around and felt a moment of wonder as the city came to life, neon lights taking the torch from the setting sun and setting the strip alight.

But he wasn’t at his desk. Instead, he was hunched over the coffee table in the corner, sitting across from a redheaded woman. They were both looking down at the laptop between them.

“What do you think?” she asked.

House shook his head. “Nah, she’s not into four arms. At least I don’t think so.” He swiped left, sending the photo of the demon holding a different fish in each arm flying offscreen. It was replaced by a photo of a horrifying gargoyle taking a toothy selfie from the underside of the Hoover Dam. “Damn.” He shook his head.

“I don’t think we’re getting anywhere.”

“Look, statistically, there has to be at least one semi-tolerable… potential romantic partner for her.” Sterling shrugged, pulling off her jacket. The room was sweltering.

“I dunno. Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place.”

“How so?”

“It’s been two hours, and Sindr is feeding us a never-ending slop train of guys and girls who don’t know the meaning of class. Calendar is a classy gal. She’s got class. She’s oozing the stuff.”

“I once saw her try to fistfight a vending machine because it was out of Cheez-Its.”

“That’s not important. What I’m saying is that I don’t think-” He peered down at the tablet. “’Gorgolar’ from the Third Circle who likes torture, hiking, flaying and other romantic activities is going to satisfy her.”

“Well, it’s not like we can send her on a date with a regular person,” Sterling offered, exasperated.

They stared at each other.

“No, no, no—”

Calendar stared at the small folding contraption in her lap. It was slightly larger than a grimoire, but not quite as big or thick as a tome. It was made of metal rather than skin or even leather, and the insides were… strange. She held it up with both hands; for no reason at all, House was struck by the mental image of an elephant playing with a plastic toy phone.

“What is it?” she asked. They were in her quarters; she was put up in one of Site-666’s underground suites. The small, concrete-walled room had all the amenities she needed: a bed. Even in her humanoid form, she completely dominated it, which meant the much-smaller Director was relegated to leaning against a wall and pretending it didn’t feel weird.

“It’s a laptop! Very complicated, expensive — please don’t break it — piece of machinery. You use it for — well, you’ll use it for a very, uh, secret mission.”

She perked up. “Finally. I was going crazy cooped up in here, making sure you don’t hurt yourself. You’re very fragile, you know.”

He glowered at her. “Don’t forget who signs your paychecks.”

“What’s a payche—”

“Anyway, you’ve been working real hard lately. And I’ve noticed that! And I like to think that, you know, employees deserve rewards for doing their jobs well. So I think— look, you’re getting a night off.”

“But I don’t want a night off. I want to punch things.”

“Well, it’s mandatory.”

“Do I get to pick how I spend it?”

“No.”

“Then how is it a night off?”

“It’s a mandatory night off regular duty which you will spend with a very special person, as decreed by me.”

This caught her interest. Calendar leaned down until she was eye-level with the scrawny man — a not-inconsiderable distance. “Who?”

House tapped the strange metal book.

“They’re in here?” she asked, raising the device to her face. It didn’t seem anywhere near big enough to fit a person. “How do we get them out?”

DeadliftDemon: Hi

ISAAC_5817: Hey.

DeadliftDemon: Nice to meet you

DeadliftDemon: My boss tells me you’re trapped

ISAAC_5817: Weird pickup line, but I guess you’re not wrong.

DeadliftDemon: That doesn’t sound comfortable

ISAAC_5817: It’s not.

ISAAC_5817: Actually it sucks pretty bad. Like being enclosed in a box that’s completely not shaped for you.

DeadliftDemon: Yes that does appear to be literally the situation you are in

ISAAC_5817: This is a weirdly heavy first conversation, sorry about that.

DeadliftDemon: Don’t be sorry

DeadliftDemon: I love heavy things

DeadliftDemon: Heavier the better honestly

ISAAC_5817: Not a fan of small talk, huh? I can get that.

ISAAC_5817: Well, what are you a fan of? Besides heavy things.

DeadliftDemon: Huge things. Underground spaces. The smell of sulfur. Fighting

ISAAC_5817: Fighting? Like MMA?

DeadliftDemon: What’s MMA

ISAAC_5817: It’s kind of like WWE.

DeadliftDemon: I don’t know what that is either. I’m not good with acronyms

DeadliftDemon: Except SCP I know that one

ISAAC_5817: Hey, same.

ISAAC_5817: Though I bet we’re thinking of different ones. What does yours stand for?

DeadliftDemon: Not sure now that you mention it

DeadliftDemon: What about yours

ISAAC_5817: … I don’t know either. Huh.

DeadliftDemon: Hahahaha

DeadliftDemon: You’re a funny little man

ISAAC_5817: Thanks, I think. Though I wouldn’t exactly call myself little.

ISAAC_5817: That sounded weird. I wasn’t flirting there.

DeadliftDemon: Everyone is little compared to me

DeadliftDemon: That was flirting

ISAAC_5817: Oh! Oh.

DeadliftDemon: What do you look like anyway

ISAAC_5817: Average, I guess. 5’10, brown hair. Godly physique, but probably not in the way you’re thinking.

DeadliftDemon: Confident

ISAAC_5817: What about you?

DeadliftDemon: I’m seven feet tall, large, and horny

DeadliftDemon: Horned*

ISAAC_5817: Wow, you’re forward.

ISAAC_5817: I kinda like it.

DeadliftDemon: Forward is the best direction because it allows you to face your enemy with honor and courage. Let them see your face as you charge boldly at them — let them know you are unafraid and confident in your ability to beat them into a pulp

ISAAC_5817: You don’t flirt often, do you?

DeadliftDemon: Only with danger

DeadliftDemon: I like you

ISAAC_5817: The feeling’s mutual! You don’t meet a lot of people this accepting around here.

DeadliftDemon: We should meet up for drinks and also to discuss combat strategies

ISAAC_5817: Is that what they’re calling it nowadays?

Calendar ducked her head under the doorway as she stepped inside the club. The bouncer hadn’t bothered trying to stop her. She tried to show him the fake ID Thorner had ‘acquired’ for her, but his eyes had widened so much on the path up to her face that he seemed content to let her through. Her human facade was getting quite good. She smoothed out the club dress she had stolen from the minimum-security anomalous objects locker; it was near-impossible to find clothes her size. The music got louder as she proceeded through the hallway, and then she was inside.

First observation: it was loud as shit. This was Infernal, one of the few clubs that existed in Vegas and Undervegas simultaneously. Inside, the flashing club lights, smoke, and deafening music made discerning between demons and people difficult at the best of times. On a busy night like this, it was downright impossible.

Regardless, she meandered through the outskirts of the dance floor, parting the crowd with all the grace of a 200-pound butter knife, making her way to the booths. Then she spotted what she was looking for — or rather, who.

She slid into the empty seat of the booth. Opposite her, the other occupant looked up, eyes widening. Her first impression was: jumpy. He had a handsome face underlined by eye bags and looked to be in his mid-20s, with a mop of shaggy brown hair. Amongst a sea of club dresses and gaudy shirts, he was dressed in a straightforward hoodie and jacket on jeans. Calendar started to wish she’d worn her combat vest.

She stuck her hand out. They shook awkwardly.

“I’m Isaac. Nice to finally put a face to a name. Which is…”

“Call me Calendar,” she offered, wriggling around. The seat was clearly not designed to accommodate someone built like a Mack truck.

“That’s… an interesting name. Where does it come from?”

“It’s a long story. What about Isaac, where does that came from?”

He blinked.

“I, uh, picked it myself.”

Her eyes widened.

“You can do that?!”

“Well, um, yeah, most people like me do.”

“You okay, little guy? You seem nervous.”

He looked around. “I just don’t really like clubs. All this noise and the smell of bad decisions.”

“Well, how do you feel about booze?” she asked, waiving down a server.

Isaac smiled. “I can do booze.”

“You’re red, you know that? You look… really red…” he slurred out, two hours later. The once-clean table was now host to a veritable clan of emptied bottles of all shapes and sizes. Calendar was holding one in her massive fist, having completely abandoned her glass. Isaac wasn’t doing much better.

“That’s just the lights,” she said, affectionately tousling his hair from across the table.

“Also big. Really big.”

“Thanks! I work out.”

“I… can see that. Pass the Fireball.”

So she did, and they kept drinking.

“Don’t we have to like, pay for these?”

He shook his head. “I get free drinks wherever I go. Don’t think about it too hard. Just happens.”

“People must really —” she cut herself off to take another swig. “ — like you!”

“Eh,” he grumbled. “They like the idea of me.”

“What?!” She had to shout now, to be heard over the music

“I mean, they like what they think I am!”

“And that’s not what you are?!”

It took a second for that one to parse.

“No!”

“I’m not what people think I am either,” she said, with a momentary pang of guilt, but one weak enough to be washed away by another shot.

“We’ve got a lot in common!” Isaac shouted across the table. To an observer, it looked like a spirited argument between a cattail and an oak tree.

“We do!” she agreed. “What do you like to do for fun?! Besides get drunk, I mean.”

“Not a lot of opportunities for fun, where I live.”

“What, are you in a prison or something?”

“Kinda!”

“What?”

“Nothing! What about you?”

“I like to beat up people that are stronger than me!”

“That’s, uh, that’s cool, I guess! Like as a wrestler?”

“There can be wrestling involved!”

Their conversation was interrupted by someone wandering up to their table. Calendar clocked him on sight as a low-level demon — the kind you can’t avoid in Undervegas, as ubiquitous as street performers and puddles of vomit and about as charming. But it still worried her. She casually raised a hand, rubbing it across the top of her head — and felt two hard nubs. That wasn’t good. Either her human facade was slipping, or…

The demon spoke up — but to her surprise, to Isaac and not her.

“Hey, you’re Pluto’s niece! I work for your uncle, how’s he feel about you — hrk!” A strangled noise escaped his throat as an entire bottle of tequila suddenly found its way, unbroken, into its mouth. Calendar blinked. She didn’t really know what they were talking about, but she knew that this Isaac guy was nice, and these low-level demons basically lived to be frustrating inconveniences, and the look on her date’s face had gone from happy to not as soon as the demon had arrived.

The mental calculus was not difficult. She shot a hand out, wrapping it around the thing’s tequila-bottle-shaped throat, until it crunched, then slung them into the crowd.

They were quiet for a second.

“Sorry about that,” they both said, at the exact same time. Then they laughed.

“What was that guy talking about?”

He blinked. “Wait, what? I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

Isaac got a strange look on his face.

“Did I say something wrong?” she fretted.

“No! No, I just… I figured you knew, the way you’d talked about it earlier. I’m… trans,” he finished lamely.

“Oh. I thought your name was Isaac.”

“Uh, it is.”

“Okay, then I don’t know what that means.”

“Uh — okay, long story short, I’m a guy, but I didn’t always know it.”

He waited with tense attention as she finished her drink.

“Rad!”

He blinked.

“Rad?”

“Yeah, that sounds cool! How’d you find out?”

“Uh, that’s also a long story. Only learned the word recently. But I kinda feel like I always knew? But not everyone believed me. My family were real dicks about it. Are, even.”

“Gotcha, gotcha…” she said, not really understanding. “So you’re living how you want, even though your family won’t let you?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

Her eyes sparkled. “That takes a lot of strength!”

“Uh, thanks, I guess — why are you getting up?”

She slid out of the booth, planting her feet on the floor. She rolled her neck left to right, joints popping. “I’ve never fought anyone that strong before!”

“Wait, wha— WOAH!” Isaac let out a strangled cry as she picked him up by the throat and slung him into the wall. He landed roughly, leaving an indentation into the wall.

“What the fuck?!”

“Come on, fight me!” she said, picking him up and dusting him off.

“What?! I’m not gonna fight you!” he shouted up at her.

“Why not?”

“I like you! We were getting along, before you threw me into a fucking wall!”

“I like you too! That’s why I want to fight you!” She swung him into the dance floor.

He stumbled backward. “What the hell is wrong with you?! I don’t want to hurt you!”

“Honey, I don’t think that was ever a possibility,” she shouted, following him into the crowd as it parted around her. Two feet shorter than her, he dodged her grabs gracefully.

“You’d be surprised!”

“Prove it!” No sooner had the words escaped her lips than a bottle smashed against the side of her head. She blinked. “Huh.”

The crowd around them — more demons than people now, she noticed — gave them room to play. Isaac had lost all resistance, and was prancing around like a featherweight boxer. Abandoned bottles floated up around him in the smoky air.

She frowned. “Magic? That’s not fair.”

“You’re an eight feet tall bodybuilder!”

He had a point. She swung forward, fist colliding with him, but he tanked the punch, not even stumbling. “Not bad.”

He shot a hand out in her general direction, forehead screwed up — then he got a confused look. “Why doesn’t my— UGH!” He fell backward, not expecting the leg sweep.

From a distance, it looked kind of like dancing.

“What are you, a mage? Wizard? Please, just don’t be a fucking spellsword!”

“I’m a god!” he shouted up, weaving between her punches.

“Oh shit, really? We’ve got a few of those! I’m—” She was cut off when a nearby patron turned into a swarm of locusts that flew into her face, blinding her. “A demon!” she finished after she swatted them away. Then she rushed the diminutive man, wrapping him into her arms and throwing herself backward, smashing them both into the ground. They rolled away from each other on the dance floor.

“You can take a lot of punishment!”

“I could say the same about you,” he said, coming out of nowhere with a flying tackle to drop her back down. He started whaling on her with his fists, which had as much effect as if she had been an actual whale.

“Aw man, you ripped my dress.” She grabbed him by the head and got to her feet, raising him into the air before chucking him away.

“Sorry!”

Their dance continued, separating around the groups of dancing demons, until she grabbed him around the neck — then heard a voice from behind her.

“That’s her!”

She turned, Isaac still in hand. It was a group of low-level demons, armed with bats and chains — and one with a memorably tequila-bottle-shaped throat pointing at her.

“Brought friends, you ugly bitch!”

Shit. She stretched her other arm, preparing to fight one-handed — until she noticed Isaac’s arm outstretched, and their bats malforming into wriggling snakes.

“Tag team?” she asked, looking down at him.

“Hell yeah.”

Half an hour later, they stumbled out of the club, Calendar’s dress riddled with cuts and shears, Isaac riding on her shoulder and clinging onto a horn for stability (with a bottle in his other hand).

The line to get into the club moved out of their way as the demoness stomped out, wiping her knuckles of blood.

“In my defense, I had no way to know that was the owner.”

“He deserved it,” Isaac reassured her.

“What now?” she asked. It was three in the morning, but Undervegas was as alive as ever. “We can do anything.”

“Wanna go back to your place and—”

She cut him off by pulling his head down for a kiss.

The next day…

House and Sterling sat around the table in Site-666’s cafeteria, sipping coffee. He threw a card onto the table.

“Checkmate.”

“What?”

Just then, the door swung open. Calendar’s hulking frame ducked underneath it. Not quite all the doors in the Site had been Calendar-proofed yet. She started pouring herself a cup of coffee.

“Girl, you look like shit,” Sterling offered.

“Wrinkled suit, no tie, second-favorite Kevlar vest. Someone had a fun night,” the Director opined.

“It was okay,” she said, taking a seat on a metal folding chair. It came dangerously close to ending its service. As she sat, she took off her cap, revealing her horns. “Don’t say a goddamn word.”

They proceeded to say several goddamn words.

“You — holy shit, Boss,” Sterling said, a twinge of awe in her voice.

“Wow. Stringbean had more in him than I expected.”

The tip of her left horn was chipped off.

“Does that, like, grow back?”

“It’ll be fine by tomorrow. Now leave me alone.” She put her cap back on, and marched back to the kitchenette.

Sterling leaned closer to House. “Why did you want her gone so bad, anyway?”

He hid his cards. “Look, it’s her job, but she’s always looking over my goddamn shoulder. I needed some me time, you know?”

“Gross.”

Several hours earlier…

Director House sat alone in his office, the Las Vegas Strip framed behind him like a tableau. His massive desk was dominated by a single object: a Xerox printer.

He frowned.

"We need to talk."