What Seamstress Lacks Steel? - SCP Foundation

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TAB F: Readiness Evaluation (Summary)

Ms. Eyles continues to display the same loyalty toward leadership (both in person and in office) noted during previous evaluations, but clearly struggles with changes that occurred in the decade since losing contact. Her maintenance of Coalition equipment was described as exemplary upon review by technicians who were deemed suitable despite differing areas of expertise. Whether activities undertaken during separation ran counter to current Coalition interests remains unclear.

Other hurdles to reintegration remain in terms of psychology and broader socialization. Ms. Eyles' return to active service cannot be recommended at this time.

When Aster dreams, it is not of the kernel most tightly wrapped around her soul—marrow-girded, artery-laced—but instead the superior husk constructed around it. The rumbling of a bioreactor recently fed. The rhythm of shells rotating through their magazine. The numb of electronic countermeasures firing in full. Only within that extension of herself, that fullness of herself, can enough worries about the future be discarded to find contentment in the present. There is no worthy reflex without neurons mirrored by banks of shielded processors and solid-state memory, no worthy breaths or heartbeats beyond a parasympathetic system whose needs range from fluid pressure to power distribution. Waking outside that is to be diminished, dismembered, pried from a most comforting cradle.

Every time Aster rose, it was within a shell of corrugated metal and faux-glass even more removed from proper armor than most. Basecamp Kane curled around one of the new gaps used to supply Tellechian armies and Pardusht saboteurs among whatever other pies the Coalition chose to finger. Graceless, galling, it baked in the sun and froze at night, offering little protection from lands nearly as inhospitable as Cherinmark in their own fashion. Canvas hangers shielded Caterwaulers under repair, depots thrummed with activity as munitions were repackaged, and barracks slowly filled with advisors green to this field.

It was more than enough to make her miss Mealworm's company. Now there was a woman who appreciated the conflict's nuances if not its participants' every pathology. These officials and soldiers, seconded from earthside organizations as they were, had yet to even begin acclimating. Few had acclimated to her either—a creature whose skin was lined with ports, whose vibrant red mane brushed the floor. Was lankiness a surprise when her kernel was not the form fit for fighting? Was that gait unusual on legs ill-fitted to her brain's every instinct?

"–decided to stay behind on her own for some ungodly reason."

"Wouldn't be surprised if she went feral over the years."

"And won't turn over codes for–"

Such were snippets overheard in barracks, in the canteen, in trips to stare longingly at the last PACER allotted to her (technically an INGMasSENT-COUR, whose designation broke down into new layers of acronyms, but Mealworm's description was too charming to reject when Aster indeed posed this world's pacing threat). Oh, to slide open access panels within that hangar and connect even a single spinal jack. Staring up at her stilled self, flexing disconnected muscles, it was almost possible to feel servos activate as they should, to experience a oneness that burgeoned whenever implants saw use. But, no, all the sensations in the world weren't enough to set it moving.

Without routine maintenance, there were few distractions save debriefing by a rotating cast of officials in ill-fitting suits. The land seemed to drain their vigor, even dead plains proving too otherworldly for those from Turtle Bay, saying nothing of elves who flitted into firing ranges or orks consulting escorted scientists. She first met those shades after a self-imposed exile that followed her retreat from Mt. Perfidy with near-empty holds. Whatever Mealworm had managed atop that peak before perishing, it had clearly been enough to wrench their respective powers back into play. Not that hers had more than platitudes to offer yet. 'You showed exemplary bravery by enduring this long,' intoned one supervisor or another. 'We could learn a thing or two about dedication from you,' 'I couldn't have made it one year, let alone ten.' Suffering through it was harder than any day in her silo. The urge to gush was as guilty a tell as any—each suit keenly aware of their relief that others made choices they wouldn't dare. It might soothe those pangs in part, but did nothing to reduce the distance now separating Aster from herself.

Next came the angling, always done within debriefing rooms fitted with folding chairs and picnic tables, and increasingly by one sniveling welp crawled straight from graduate school. "You have to understand, ma'am, there wasn't a need to keep producing parts. The INGM… Ingmus… It isn't viable back home. They assembled most of the systems here, tested them here, and buried them here, so all the engineers were transferred to different projects years ago."

"I don't need engineers, I need fuel. And I'm very much aware of the program's history after living through it."

"The machine may need fuel, but we don't store that seed stock anymore. None of our records capture its makeup either, and modern reagents burn too hot for NIMUR-class reactors."

"Yes, which I told your predecessor multiple times." Keeping up her smile hurt, but it was one of the few advantages available without rank. "The stock is mostly local, with only a few additions from Earth needed. Procuring more shouldn't be a problem."

"Buying too many components would send the wrong signal, ma'am. You need to consider the big picture here." That gray suit hung worse than ever as he stood and pushed sweat-soaked hair back into place. Smoothing. Preening. Each circuit paced before a window only drew attention to the hanger looming in the middle distance—yet again, psychic flexes did nothing but needle sore nerves. She sipped tea instead, a taste of home no doubt intended to make her more agreeable, though that was far from the first feeling to well.

"Please explain how sending me back in pieces fits the big picture. I must be too narrow-minded to understand these orders."

"They aren't orders until you're reinstated," said the suit, scratching at a rash beneath his starched collar. "And there's no need to take it that way either. Lieutenant General Moore has zero plans that call for this kind of weapon. I mean, the size alone! What are you expecting to shoot?"

"Whatever the 108 don't want intact, I suppose."

"Mhh. Letting a mech wander aboveground will only convince our partners that we're holding back. The point of this operation isn't to conquer the continent for anyone!"

"Alas. My mindedness falls short once again."

"And jokes aren't helping your case, ma'am. Do you want to be reinstated or not?"

"I want to show the Foundation what will happen if they overstep even a little." Aster tapped her finger hard against the tabletop. "I want to make them regret ever challenging us here." Another tap, sharp as chalk cracking against the board she needed for this bureaucrat's education. "I especially want to trample thousands of them into the dirt until their paste stains it red forever."

Something in the distance groaned as Aster kept tapping, a pattern that drove her interviewer to chew his cheek. If only he knew the intent firing off through empty ports. Perhaps he could sense something of it with how the pruning resumed though, a reflex toward respectability that displayed his adherence to 'good practice' and 'proper procedures.'

"It can't be easy finding yourself a decade out of date, but it isn't like that with the Foundation anymore. In the real world, we've found–"

"This world is plenty real. Or do you happen to believe we spent years fighting over a dream? I wonder how General DuPree would react."

"She's retired now. We have a new approach by new leaders after the last rotation. To stay on their good side, I highly recommend that you get with the program, be more forthcoming about your activities, and come home without fighting over what happens to an outdated weapon."

Another two taps became three, five, nine. So few options were available for expressing displeasure when split off; so few vents to flare, weapons to test, ways to crush and crumple without gauntlets. This wasn't the return she wanted nor a war she needed. Where were the forward advisors fighting alongside locals? And where were the soldiers barely hidden under other banners? They had retreated, regressed, to the earliest days of far-side strife, absent any expertise honed over past decades—a state apparently sought by this pup wearing his father's shoes.

Aster's next tap vanished beneath sheering metal that echoed around camp as her PACER rose straight through girders and canvas and whatever other locks they thought sufficient. Her flex was its flex. Their mirrored disdain congealed into one. A genuine smile broke at last, and she reached down to pluck herself free from nuisances of every sort, sparing not even a thought for the fleeing suit.

Narrow window wells. Dripping pipes and clogged drains. Dampness rivaling Cherinmark's own, cultivated for the mushrooms grown in the sub-sub-basement temporarily playing prison to a man whose wrists are cuffed to a sturdy chair. Bulbous grunnans, spindly queencrown, and porous soapstones all thrive there, as do lattices trailing from a dancer's veil that strokes the ceiling. Drowning in alcohol had never led to a less hospitable place.

"Hit him again," said the scrawnier of two plainclothes KSER officers whose faces were obscured behind membranes. "Avoid the head for now." Knuckles thudded into a liver already abused, and its internal shriek drove another that proved impossible to restrain.

"Your family is concerned about you, Galowyn." No surprise.

"Your family can't fathom why you strayed, Galowyn." Small wonder.

"Your liege has questions too, Galowyn. He is most curious about your associates, most curious indeed. Birds of an interesting feather flocked ever since you fled for untamed lands. Tell us about this Mealworm." What could they possibly want to hear? Surely not appraisals of her martial skill, nor his fascination with how shamelessly she took the coward's path; potentially her blade's grave or the intoxicant that summoned ancestral might into mortal shells, though he knew little of either. Such was torture's foolishness though. It only ever served as self-satisfaction for those too powerful to accept their own ignorance.

"Hit him again."

"Hold, hold," he said, panting before the fist struck true—more than orkish ancestors, that bruiser surely had ogre in their line. Self-satisfaction hurt. "What do you wish to know about her?"

"Ah, a woman. Who arms her, Galowyn? What other mercenaries do they fund, and which itinerants do they supply?"

Another inadvertent wince. Showing weakness, yes, but memories of pain dug deep even after suffering through years of training and experiencing plenty more within Cherinmark's churn. "She had a map of caches. Lost with her on the mount."

"Misdirection. Hit him again." This time, nothing staved off a blow straight to his diaphragm that drove gags and gasps in equal measure. "Did dwarves reforge her peerless blade, Galowyn? Do these machinations disguise a dynasty rising from its knees, or does a foreign tune drive this dance?"

"What dance? We fought alongside dwarves as much as with–"

"For what reason do her fellows harry your motherland, Galowyn? To what end do they snip and snarl at every court instead of claiming a crown for their master? Hit him again."

"Delusion," he gasped back, cracked ribs burning with each flex. "Her interest lay with otherworldly kingdoms before aught else. It was not our courts that held concern, and moreover, cannot newly grasp it when she lies dead!"

"And after making such a loyal hound of you," sneered the wiry KSER agent who had yet to dirty his hands. Leaning forward revealed his tiny mustache and watery eyes. Such features barely registered as Galowyn lunged, bite driven by the curse that yet bound him to distant family. The flesh, the blood, such was that specter's cherished feast, and being torn away added plenty of skin as garnish.

"Bah, less than a hound. Another beast led blind!" snarled the bleeding man as his own attack dog pummeled Galowyn. Gentler than father's beatings though, gentler than chastisement over squirely failings. Far gentler than retreating from Mt. Perfidy while knowing full well how many perished there. He was hurled chair and all to the far corner of that spore-filled cell before his captors retreated—a new resting place, cushioned by fungi beneath slivers of moonlight that crept through dirty windows.

"Expect no prayers from me." Galowyn spat a tooth sharper than most into the planter, tasting his own blood intermingled with whatever foulness swirled within his so-called motherland's shadow court. Mealworm would have mustered properly if she survived, leaving letters at dead drops or sending whispers ever farther. Those sworn against right and proper civilization were bound thus. Some wastrel must have stolen her name, her identity, to cloak their own purposes. Although she often proved immune to affronts worth dueling over, what role had a knight save bristling for another's sake?

Bristle he did, shaggy blonde fur sprouting as moonlight filled reservoirs deeper than those found in Cherinmark. Out grew fangs sharper than any elven whipblade. Out sprang claws ready to tear through mastercraft armor. The litter's runt he might be, having escaped before family secrets could be imparted in full, but there was much to do before any pack's reclaiming.

Candlelight and candlewax. These are fixtures of any wizard's study, whether accompanying tomes filled with dangerous secrets or scrying pools tuned for matters better kept private. Such was the study of Gregor the Sonorous too, perched high atop a fluted tower which should never have been stolen from him. Only blood was out of place there, having been spilt by MIDAR agents whose bodies now smoldered on the carpet. Ash crumbled from bone as he lit a new cigar with sparks from gilded teeth.

"Weak, too weak by half." He blew smoke at the last surviving agent, whose burns guaranteed death even if their ruler passed down a droplet or two of ichor to every loyal killer. "Her Immortal Majesty has become fickle of late, wouldn't you say? A plan or two going awry is hardly unusual once armies take the field. Much as you sorry lot learned today."

Gurgles came through a jaw fused shut beneath oozing skin. Gregor had inflicted worse, but rarely on fellow countrymen. There were more efficient tools for that.

"Mayhap the Foundation started whispering in her ear again, eh? Started stroking that mewling ego and filling drained coffers. I should have predicted the wheel would spin, but, ah, she's a convincing one when she wants to be."

The maimed agent reached for a pistol—melted as thoroughly as her other fixtures, though perhaps a more cherished idol. Gregor puffed away as it raised in his direction. As the trigger impotently clicked. With another clack of his teeth, wisps of smoke gathered from scattered embers, twisting her neck until its crack brought relief for wizard and assassin both. Once again, he was left with the smell of cigar, corpse, and study, all alight in different fashions.

Running a hand through his yellowed beard, lingering on knotted locks, Gregor strode to the broken window that would soon welcome sunrise. Wafts of smoke escorted those new spirits off into whatever afterlife awaited them all. Her Majesty had underestimated him this time. Or was it no more than a feint to spur action elsewhere? Games upon games, ploys upon ploys, spells upon spells, there was no telling exactly when their endgame began. Perhaps it was that decision to betray little Mealworm—a pointless one, it seemed, with what the key bought and how court politics tilted since. The agitator had been too bit a player regardless of their other bonds though.

It was this new power briefed to the war council who offered promise, especially if avenues were indeed closing fast, if Allaingar was lost to him despite every maneuver. The only question was how to best present himself before that throne.

There rises a citadel in wildest Cherinmark.

Giants pass stones from the league-deep quarries that the last of their kind slumber within, roused by a land still marked by matching footsteps. Up, spindly arms lifting weight despite emaciation most thorough. Up, gnarled hands clutching slabs and pillars fit only for fortresses. Up, so that blisters may soak in the drizzle that once graced them in full. Kin who still bear ancient blood build according to schematics expressed therein, and the forest retreating from foundations proves acceptance aplenty.

There stalks new danger in its every shadow.

Two goblins to a warg whose fur requires no harness. Two goblins to an anti-materiel rifle, wrapped in rags despite its matte-black coating. When they dismount, it is onto one crag of many, overlooking one valley of many, shrouded in knots of pulsating overgrowth that shield from drones whirring overhead. No sensor suites can stop them from firing on the convoy pushing through a clear—and as such, ill-advised—route toward Fort Hadrin. One bullet through the foremost truck's engine block. Another few peppering windshields. Ejected casings smoke in foliage as those small creatures wrap their rifle and mount their warg, spirited off into warrens before loitering munitions can strike true.

Even without intruding upon deepest Cherinmark, its tendrils squirm outwards, worming through buried silos and weapons caches that few remember. Their forms are many too: bands that rove from mountain dens, shades who flit through shadows… and of course, folk thinking themselves inheritors of that unclaimable land. Not explorers and adventurers who see alien hills full of treasure, but cast-offs already settled into their embrace.

These are the days of collaborators and conspirators watching burned banners be stitched anew.

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