The Drooling Path: Part 5 - SCP Foundation

James was running for his life. His bare feet padded almost silently on the hotel's brown-and-gold carpet, so the loudest sounds were his gasping breath and the pounding heartbeat in his ears.

That, and the howling.

by Kothardarastrix

I've looked into the heart of darkness...

James was running for his life. His bare feet padded almost silently on the hotel's brown-and-gold carpet, so the loudest sounds were his gasping breath and the pounding heartbeat in his ears.

That, and the howling.

The predators had started after him as soon as he emerged from Room 710, slinking out of a room down the hall like so many vicious dogs. He hadn't a clue how they'd managed to open the hotel door with their armored paws, but one look at their teeth told him it wouldn't be safe to stick around and ask.

Unfortunately for James, he might soon be out of other options. Adrenaline can only get you so far when you haven't run since the last time a P.E. teacher forced you to, and right now the predators' clawed feet were getting them much farther.

Another piercing howl echoed down the hallway's seemingly infinite length. James cast a frantic glance over his shoulder and felt sick when he saw how close the pack was getting. Running wasn't going to work.

Then, up ahead, James saw his way out: a big door labeled "Swimming Pool". He didn't know if the predators could swim, but he certainly could. He skidded to a halt, burning the soles of his feet on the carpet. He staggered through the door, still off-balance from his sudden stop, and flagrantly defied a "NO RUNNING" sign.

A swarm of enormous gray bugs skittered away from James's feet as they slapped on the cold concrete. He accidentally flattened one with a loud crunch, but paid it no attention. Then, finally, he leapt from the edge and plunged into the water.

Gasping, James rose back to the surface. The pool water was uncomfortably warm, but James fought through the new wave of nausea brought on by the sudden temperature change and paddled out to the deep end. Just as he reached the deepest part of the pool, he heard the wolves at the door.

There were six of them in all, massive canine monsters with heads covered in bony armor plates. Sharp claws clicked on the concrete, slavering jaws snapped at the air, and ululating howls rang loudly beneath the high concrete ceiling. The creatures spread out, circling the pool and the gasping research assistant treading water at its center. James turned frantically in the water, trying to watch all six of the wolves at once, terrified that they might know how to swim. But they did not jump in. they just stood there, tensed and ready to pounce. James was confused at first, but then he realized what was happening.

They were going to wait him out.

No way could he tread water that long. He'd have to make his way back to the shallow end of the pool, where he could stand. In retrospect, it had probably been unnecessary to swim to the deep end anyway. The wolves wouldn't fare any better in four feet of water than in ten. So, under the wary gaze of the wolves' beady eyes, he swam back to the shallow part of the pool.

Or, at least, what should've been the shallow part. James looked down. Something was terribly wrong. There was no bottom beneath his feet, only darkness. The rough, blue walls of the pool plunged twenty feet down or more, but beyond that the illumination from the ceiling lights petered out to the nothing. It was like being lost at sea.

He looked back up at the wolves, still waiting patiently for their prey to tire out and crawl ashore. "Get outta here!" he yelled, splashing water at the nearest one. It hardly flinched as the water hit it, droplets running harmlessly off its armored head. "I said GET!" he repeated, splashing more violently this time. Surprisingly, that worked. The wolf leapt back a few steps, then ran back into the hallway with its tail between its legs. Even more miraculously, the other five followed suit, whining quietly as they fled.

James couldn't believe it, but he wasn't going to question his success. He started making his way toward the nearest ladder. All that running, not to mention treading water in his pajamas, had worn him out. James wasn't a proficient swimmer; he knew how to not drown, but he'd never gotten much further than that. Like a lot of kids, James had always been afraid to put his face in the water, something that he hadn't outgrown as an adult. He made sure to keep his head above the surface as he paddled to the ladder.

Which was unfortunate, or else he might've seen the tentacle before it closed around his leg. James instinctively sucked in one last gasp of air before he was dragged under, but he quickly wasted it by struggling in vain against the slimy appendage's crushing grip. He looked down through the clear water and only saw more tentacles, dozens of them, wriggling up out of the bottomless darkness to embrace him with their tooth-lined suckers. One went to close around his body and he tried to swat it away, but it just wrapped around his arm instead. He had to fight a cry of pain as the tentacles squeezed, bruising flesh and cracking bone in their relentless grip. He thrashed fruitlessly at the limbs encircling him, but could do nothing to stop their relentless assault as more of them closed around his other limbs, his torso, and his neck. The tentacle around his chest squeezed out the last of his air, and he watched in dumb desperation as it bubbled away to the increasingly distant surface. Just before he lost consciousness, James thought he heard the snapping of a massive beak somewhere below.

As soon as she saw him stumble back into the lobby, half-zipped bag in hand, Jess knew that Conrad had found whatever he was looking for. It was in his wild, bloodshot eyes.

"What did you-" she began, as he reached the desk.

"New room," he gasped.

"What?"

"I need a new room." He swallowed loudly. "Please."

She leaned toward him to whisper, but he jerked back away from her.

"What did you find?" she asked.

He shook his head vigorously. "Classified."

"But you did find something."

He nodded reluctantly. "Don't tell anyone." He wasn't particularly worried about it. The Foundation would surely track him down eventually, and they'd have a dose of amnestics with Jess's name on it.

"What happens now?"

"Some people will be here soon to deal with it. But right now I just really need another room, please. I can't sleep in there."

Jess looked even more confused than before, but she began the process of finding him a new room. "I'll just say that it wasn't cleaned properly."

"Thank you."

Jess tried a few more times to probe Conrad about his discovery in Room 710, but he continued to evade her questions until she finally handed over the new key. He ignored her as he staggered away, because the only thing on his mind now was some much-needed sleep.

He still made sure to stick to the opposite side of the hall when he walked past Room 710, though.

In movies, people wake abruptly from their nightmares, shooting into a sitting position with eyes wide open. This is not what happened to James. His awakening was slow and agonizing. The overheated pool water was one and the same with his room's stifling, stagnant air, and the tentacle around his neck was indistinguishable from his shirt, twisted up under his wriggling body until its collar pressed uncomfortably on his throat. He was gasping for breath, but he was also struggling to scream. All that came out was a quiet, guttural groan. He strained his limbs, wrestling against imaginary tentacles and the lingering paralysis of sleep. Only when the blackness closed over him in the pool was he finally able to open his eyes in the waking world.

For a long, painful moment, James thought he was somehow still in Room 710. But then he recognized his dismal room at Area-14, and for the first time was relieved to see it. James grimaced as he sat up. His headache had diminished some, but now it was joined by aches in his neck and back, courtesy of the awkward position he'd fallen asleep in.

Something fell to the floor with a muted thump. James peered over the edge of the bed and saw that it was his phone.

HIS PHONE!

"Gah!" James cried, rolling ungracefully out of bed and into the floor beside it. He pawed frantically at the device. How long had he been asleep? It could already be too late!

The emergency hotline answered on the first ring.

Much to his surprise, Conrad slept well. He supposed the exhaustion he'd accumulated over the last several days (or, honestly, years) of not sleeping enough had finally managed to overwhelm the cocktail of stress, anxiety, and dread that normally kept him up at night. And the best part was that he didn't even remember dreaming. When he got out from under the sheets that Sunday morning, it felt like stepping out of a long, hot, relaxing shower. He was fresher than he'd been in years, and - incredibly - felt more excited about his trip to IKEA than worried. This was what he lived for, after all. What he'd signed up for in the first place. He hadn't expected that waging war against memetic anomalies and deciphering the coded messages of Ronald Reagan would involve cross-country trips to hotels and furniture stores, of course, but Foundationers learn to expect the unexpected.

To Conrad's relief, Jess was not still on duty when he checked out. The process went smoothly, and before he knew it he was on his way to Fishkill with a Saint Vitus album in the stereo and a bag of burgers in the passenger seat. Steak 'n' Shake's greasy, buttery, garlicky steakburgers wouldn't be any good for his health (or his breath), but neither was anything else about this trip. He washed down his fears of pre-diabetes with a birthday cake milkshake.

His good mood (such as it was) didn't last long, though. That's because, two hours later, he saw a road sign for Scranton. It was always weird, seeing that name on things that weren't reality anchors. But that little oddity, a mere quirk of reference frames, wasn't what disturbed him. It was the thought of what had happened to the great Robert Scranton.

Conrad skipped "Into the Void," because it suddenly seemed wildly inappropriate.

"Well," he sighed, "maybe they'll name something after me too. The Scott Word Salad Spinner. SWoSS." Then he started giggling. Maybe it was just because the people in the memetics division have a weird sense of humor. Or maybe it was because he'd just realized that he didn't particularly care if he was about to die or not.

Jess had wanted to come in early that day, but George refused to allow such a last-minute schedule adjustment with even more vehemence than usual. By then, she felt sure that he was somehow in on whatever was happeneing in Room 710. Hopefully he wouldn't fire her (or, she increasingly worried, do something much worse) when he noticed that she'd moved a customer out of there. But she didn't particularly care about that right now; right now, she was just hoping that Conrad wouldn't check out before she got to the Atherton.

She knew it was too late before she ever pulled into the parking lot, though, because she could see that there were already ten white vans with heavily tinted windows parked in it. Self-preservation got the better of her curiosity, so she just kept going. As much as she might want to know what was going on in there, it wasn't worth getting mind-wiped or "disappeared" by the Men in Black.

Unlike Jess, George was already at work. That's why three men with black suits and reflective shades had just entered his office. Two others were questioning the kid at the desk, and several more guys in what looked like hazmat suits were marching down the hallway. George didn't have to wonder what room they were headed for.

He looked up at the men in black and groaned. "It was Jess, wasn't it?"

Sergeant Marcus Thorpe of Mobile Task Force Lambda-14 adjusted his sunglasses. "We'll be asking the questions here, mister."

Unfortunately for Conrad Scott, the "One Star Reviewers" cordoning off the Atherton Hotel weren't the only agents dispatched as a result of James's call. Some cybersecurity agents followed his credit card to the airport in Pittsburgh, the license plate of his rental car to Scranton, and his search history to Fishkill. Then a team of field agents were dispatched to his probable destination: a perfectly normal, regular old IKEA.

Conrad had been growing increasingly nervous ever since he'd crossed the state line. His luck had held out so far, but he wasn't sure how much farther he'd be able to get before the Foundation tracked him down. Surely they'd have noticed he wasn't where he could be reasonably expected to be. A trip to State College was odd, but checking out the next morning and making a beeline for some random flyspeck four hours away didn't make any sense at all. He just hoped he'd get there before they caught up.

The CDs ran out an hour from Fishkill, leaving Conrad with a nervous pit in his stomach, a distracting ringing in his ears, and "Funeralopolis" stuck in his head. He dug restlessly on the radio but couldn't find a decent rock station, only the mindless drivel that teenagers and rednecks listened to. Those knuckleheads wouldn't have known music if it slapped them upside the head with a Stratocaster. Conrad had played a Strat once, and he'd even been in a half-decent garage band for a little while. That guitar had once seemed like the most important thing in his life, an express ticket to the wild world of sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll that every teenage rebel had dreamt of back then. But dreams like that fade fast after a young man's inevitable rude awakening to the real world. The old black axe had grown dusty and guilt-laden under his bed in college, then in a closet at his house, and finally squirreled away in some neglected corner of his quarters at Area-14. Sometimes Allison had asked him why he never played it. He'd always answered that he was too busy, but really it was because Conrad was no longer the kind of person who played guitars and joined bands. He was the kind of person who sat at a desk and hunched over books and computers. He just didn't have the guts for anything else anymore. Not until now, anyway.

Conrad shook his head to clear it. This was no time to dwell on the past. He was finally close, close to actually accomplishing something for once. He could almost taste it as he saw the blue-and-yellow building rise into view up ahead. This was it.

Conrad walked as fast as he could without looking suspicious to the other customers in the lot. He felt silly for a passing moment, trying to surreptitiously enter a Swedish furniture store. This definitely wasn't how he'd pictured his life turning out.

He had, however, anticipated that there might be some agents there to "greet" him, and the memetics people are nothing if not observant. That's why he spotted the various "plainclothes" agents sitting in their cars, chatting on their radios, and trying hard not to obviously stare at him. He was a little worried they might jump out and try to catch him before he made it inside, but that didn't seem to be the plan. They were probably going to wait for him to get inside, then cordon off the building and make everyone leave through the same exit. Then they'd search the whole thing to ferret him out. Hopefully he'd find what he was looking for - and know it when he saw it - before they got to him. With that thought in mind, and knowing he had no more use for subtlety, he broke into a run.

As soon as Dr. Scott dashed through the automatic doors, the agents in the parking lot sprung into action. Some fanned out around the sides to cover the other exits, while others stayed by the front door to keep an eye on those leaving. Someone made their way to the office and announced that the store was closing early, and everyone needed to leave. The shoppers gawped at the men ushering them out with pistols and radios at their hips, but a few flashed badges (local police, allegedly) were enough to convince them to move along. Unsurprisingly, Dr. Scott was not among those leaving the store.

It was surprising, however, that none of the agents searching the markethall were able to find him. It was confusing when he wasn't discovered in the self-service area either, and downright perplexing when he didn't turn up in the showroom. More agents were called, and more thorough searches were held, but Dr. Scott never appeared. It was as if he'd somehow managed to slip out of IKEA unnoticed, despite all the exits being blocked and guarded. When two of the agents went missing too, it was clear that some anomaly was at work, and the field team called for backup.

But even though Dr. Scott was gone, he had not left IKEA.

Conrad noticed the change immediately. He kept running for a bit longer, to make sure he wasn't being chased, then stopped to catch his breath and figure out exactly what had changed. The floors were the same kind of tile, and the twisting aisles of umlaut-ridden furniture were just as confusingly-laid-out as normal. Then he looked up, and it was obvious - the ceiling of the IKEA, instead of its previously reasonable position, was now at a height more appropriate for an aircraft hanger.

"Huh," he panted, for lack of anything better to say. Conrad stood on his tiptoes and peered as best he could over the shelves, which wasn't very far. The ceiling clearly stretched for much further to the sides than would've been possible in a normal IKEA, though. He also noticed that none of the signs hanging from the ceiling said "EXIT". Hopefully that meant the agents couldn't pursue him into whatever infinite furniture nightmare he was now living, but he decided to keep moving just in case. He didn't run this time, though - that brief sprint had exacerbated all the various aches and pains that'd built up in his assorted joints over the long car ride, and it was the best he could do to maintain a walk. It was too bad IKEA didn't sell Tylenol.

After two hours of walking in what was roughly a straight line (punctuated by a few brief rests on the abundant comfy chairs), Conrad was starting to get annoyed. Wherever he was, it was clearly infinite or at least anomalously large. Not recursive either, as he'd been paying attention to the dangling ceiling signs to make sure he wasn't going in circles. Despite that, he'd seen nothing but endless rows of fine Swedish furniture. There didn't seem to be anyone else in this oversized IKEA dimension, either. Business was slow, he supposed.

As if in answer to this thought, someone walked past the end of the aisle. Conrad only saw them for a second, but he recognized the blue-and-yellow uniform of IKEA staff. It felt ridiculous, asking the staff of an extradimensional anomaly for directions to the nearest drooling path, but it was better than just wandering around aimlessly.

"Excuse me," he called, walking after the person he'd glimpsed. "Could you-" he didn't finish his question, because it was suddenly clear that this staff member was not, in fact, a person. It was about the height of one, but only because its bizarrely long legs compensated for its freakishly compressed torso. Its arms were a normal length, at least.

The creature didn't respond to Conrad's voice, and he considered hightailing it in the other direction before it noticed him. But, in what had apparently become a very dangerous habit, he let his curiosity win out over self-preservation. Conrad carefully walked after it as it continued to weave aimlessly down the aisle. He tried to get a look at its face, only to discover there was none. It was a testament to Dr. Scott's experience with the Foundation that he wasn't all that surprised. He was more upset that it wasn't wearing a name tag, which might've at least provided some clue about the native language of this furniture Hell. The thing still didn't react to him, even though it would've seen him if it'd had eyes, so he decided to stop pushing his luck and head in the opposite direction.

"Yep," he grumbled, "seems like the kind of place fifty-eight would shop."

After yet another hour of Conrad in Sofa-land, he had progressed from "annoyed" to "pissed". He hadn't flushed his sad excuse for a career and the remainder of his life down the metaphorical toilet to starve to death in the mother of all IKEAs. Dehydration would be the real enemy, of course, but right now it was his grumbling stomach that demanded relief. Steak 'n' Shake had been a very long time ago. So long ago, in fact, that once he found something to eat, Conrad would probably need to find an aisle of bathroom fixtures. Hopefully the faceless employees wouldn't take issue with using the display toilets. He'd only seen one other since the first, a misshapen creature with stumpy limbs and a bloated torso milling around among some refrigerators. It had seemed just as oblivious to him as the first one, though he hadn't gone out of his way to get its attention. Maybe they couldn't see at all, what with the not having eyes. But then again, lack of eyes had never slowed 058 down any.

Then the sweet smell of Swedish meatballs hit Conrad's nostrils, and any worries about faceless IKEA staff were swept away by the prospect of food. He followed his nose to what looked like a completely normal IKEA restaurant - normal, that is, except for the total lack of any other patrons. There weren't any deformed staff manning the counter either, though, so it wasn't all bad. He did look around for them before appropriating some meatballs from the display, though, just to make sure. He had a feeling those things might be a little less tolerant of shoplifting than human employees.

The food and drink was fresh and delicious, which was exceedingly strange, but Conrad tried not to worry about it. The logistics of an infinite IKEA dimension probably weren't going to make much sense from any angle. He was still vaguely pondering the image of a gangly, faceless monster taking pastries out of the oven when he noticed the phone. It hung there on the wall behind the counter, its spiraling cord a tantalizing chance at communication. He glanced around himself again. Still no staff in sight. Carefully, he made his way behind the counter. Conrad didn't hesitate to pick up the phone; he was too desperate for something to actually happen to worry about what might be on the other end. He wasn't surprised when 058's voice slithered out of the earpiece. In fact, he grinned triumphantly.

"Hello?" he asked.

"…fed to the mollified mongrels of dystopian caricatures…"

"Hello?"

"…to slip the skin from that which cannot…"

"Fifty-eight?"

"…plumb the ocular waterfall's queen wonders."

"Anybody?"

"I came then upon the technical attraction to timely perforation of coronal…"

"Dammit!" he shouted. "I'm here! I followed the clues! Now what do you want from me?!"

"…scolipendra in the flechette-bedecked carnifex. I have seen…"

"AAARGH!" Conrad howled in frustration, flinging the phone away from himself. It bounced once off the floor before springing back up on its cord to dangle mockingly below the receiver. He could still faintly hear 058's gibberish issuing from it. He glared angrily at it for a second, but then he had an idea. He snatched the phone back up and shouted into it:

"The drooling path!"

"…to the place where the cities bow to times of hate and dive to embrace the…"

"THE DROOLING PATH!" he repeated, now almost screaming.

"…chill of stillborn moonrise, the single wayward gift of…"

"I have walked empty down drooling path? Been coming to this region for fourteen stone? Now there you go again? I see you?!?!"

"…the cold aeon light of patriarchs humidified. Placed in dust and made to…"

Conrad sighed, and all the anger went out of him. Had he really come all this way, endured so much, to wind up exactly where he'd been before he started? Deflated, Dr. Conrad Scott slumped against the counter. Still holding the phone with one shaking hand, he used the other to fish out the battered notepad and tiny pencil from the hotel. Then, with bitter tears stinging his eyes, he started transcribing.

James bounced his leg, shifted in his seat, looked around the waiting area, and otherwise tried to diffuse his nerves. He was probably annoying Director MacLean's secretary with his constant fidgeting, but she didn't show it, if only because that would've required her to stop ignoring him.

James had only spoken directly with the Area Director once before, shortly after his arrival at ABCA-14. MacLean always made an effort to greet new arrivals, either to berate them for whatever mistake had earned them a reassignment, or to offer condolences to new recruits (like James himself) who'd done nothing to deserve such an unpleasant first assignment. James had never been able to figure out if the Director's apology had been genuine, or a subtle attempt to scare him into line. Maybe both?

He was similarly confused by the circumstances of this meeting. Would he be congratulated for leading the Foundation to a new anomaly? Or would he be berated for failing to respond properly or quickly enough? James couldn't help but feel that Dr. Scott might've lived if he'd done something different - listened to the CD earlier, not fallen asleep after fighting the cognitohazard, or changing some other choice that he messed up without even realizing it.

James's constant worrying was interrupted by a gruff voice with a faint Irish lilt.

"Alright," called the Director, "come on in."

Reluctantly, James got to his feet and shuffled to the door, avoiding eye contact with the secretary as he passed (not that she tried to make any). "Director?" he asked.

MacLean nodded at the chair in front of his desk. "Have a seat."

James swallowed nervously and approached. Some of his trepidation stemmed from the circumstances of this meeting, of course, but no small amount came from MacLean himself. If there'd been cable TV at Area-14, James might've thought the Director's shaved head, goatee, and glasses made him look like a certain meth-cooking chemistry teacher. Thomas MacLean had several inches on Bryan Cranston, though, and more pounds. He also had more ink - a dark green snake with a blood-red belly that wound around the length of his muscular arm, baring its venomous fangs on the back of his right hand. Such an ostentatious tattoo was against the dress code for researchers, but that'd never been a problem for the Director; before this, he'd been the commander of Mobile Task Force Nu-7. And he'd seen 058 in action, up close and personal. James couldn't stop thinking about that while he settled nervously on the edge of his chair.

"For God's sake, man, relax!"

James leaned back a tiny bit and attempted to smile, but ended up grimacing. "Sorry."

"Oh, you think you're in trouble, don't you?"

"Uh. Am I?"

MacLean chuckled. "Of course not! Quite the opposite."

"Really?" he asked, finally starting to relax.

"Really! You've done the Foundation a service."

"I have?"

"Yep. That hotel room, the one you reported, is our newest skip. 2432, I think."

"Ours?" he asked, looking around as if the hotel might jump out from behind a filing cabinet.

"Well, not ours. It's still in the hotel. Not sure who's jurisdiction that is, actually, but it's sure not us, anyway. Neither is the other anomaly you led us to."

"Other anomaly?" This was the first James had heard of that.

MacLean looked surprised. "Didn't anybody tell you what happened?"

He shook his head, then looked away. "Only that Dr. Scott didn't make it."

"Well, sort of."

James looked up, confused. "What do you mean?"

"He's not dead, we don't think. At least not yet."

"He's not?" James straightened up.

"Well, don't get excited. They're not gonna get him back from that IKEA."

"Oh," he said, slumping again. "Wait, what?" James wondered if he'd misheard.

"Yeah, a big IKEA up in New York someplace. He went there after the hotel. It's a portal to some infinite furniture dimension or something. I don't know, they wouldn't tell me much. And I'm not supposed to tell you anything, but I figured you deserved to know."

"Oh. Uh. Thanks?" He wasn't entirely sure if he should be grateful, because he was worried that this breach of information security might be the prelude to some involuntary amnestization.

The Director smiled. "No, thank you. That's two Euclids in one day, secured, contained, and protected because of your quick thinking."

James looked down in embarrassment. "Not quick enough," he muttered.

"What do you - oh, you think Scott was your fault, don't you?"

Before James could stop himself, it all came flowing out. "I shouldn't have fallen asleep! If I'd stayed awake and called the hotline sooner, then maybe - "

"Whoa, kid, relax! Conrad got what he wanted."

"What?" James sputtered.

"Trust me. I knew the guy for a long time. The whole time he worked here, 058 was his obsession. To go out like this, on some epic quest across the country, finally solving the mystery of that thing - and maybe of 1981 too, if what he said to Glass on Friday was true - it's what he would have wanted. If he finds what he's looking for, then maybe he can finally get some rest. If not, well, at least he'll be out of his misery."

That did little to make James feel better. "I guess so," he said, quietly.

"Speaking of which," MacLean said, pointing for emphasis, "I've got an offer for you."

"An offer?"

"That's right! Not to be morbid, but there is, uh, a big opening on the 058 project now. And you are the new expert on this 'drooling path' business." With his other hand, the Director brandished the stolen 058 CD. James had guiltily turned it over as soon as he'd heard of Dr. Scott's fate.

"No!" James blurted, surprising even himself. The Director was taken aback. "I mean," he hastily continued, "please, no. I think I've had enough of that for the rest of my life."

"Right, right," MacLean said, nodding amicably. He slipped the CD back into whatever desk drawer it had come from. "How about a reassignment, then?"

"To a different object?" he asked, somewhat hopefully. He'd love to put some more distance between himself and 058. But then again, none of ABCA-14's other objects were teddy bears either. The self-eating sailor was probably the least disturbing one.

"How about a different Site?"

"What?" he was incredulous.

The Director smiled knowingly. "I don't often get the chance to save somebody from this shithole. When I do, I like to make sure it's someone who deserves it. I mean, this was your first assignment. That's just unfair."

James finally allowed himself to smile, and it was a big one. "Thank you!"

"Hey, don't thank me yet. I haven't told you where you're going." Then he winked.

James blanched. So he was in trouble after all! They were going to send him to Antarctica or something, he just knew it.

Then the Director laughed. "Relax, kid! I'm just messin' with ya. You're going to 17."

"Site-17?" he sputtered. That had to be too good to be true.

"I mean, unless you want to stay here…"

"No!" He said, a bit more desperately than he'd meant to. "I mean, thank you."

"Don't mention it," he said, extending his hand for a shake. "Seriously, don't mention it. I pulled some strings."

James grinned even wider than before as he shook the Director's hand. "I-I won't, Director, I promise. When do I leave?"

"Still ironing out the details, but I'd go ahead and start packing if I were you." The Director nodded towards the door, to make sure James didn't miss the cue.

"Right away, Sir!" Then he turned to go, still smiling.

"Oh, James?"

"Yessir?" he stopped at the door and looked back.

"Tell that next asshole to come in on your way out, would you?"

"Uh, sure."

"Thanks."

James nodded, then continued on his way. He didn't have time to ponder who the asshole might be, because none other than Dr. Aimes Johnston was sitting in the waiting area. They were equally surprised to see each other.

"James?"

"Dr. Johnston?" Then James realized what was about to happen, and his smile grew even wider. "The Director's ready to see you." Then he hurried out of the room, before his perplexed former superior could figure it out.

Dr. Johnston was still confused when he entered the office of Director MacLean, who was no longer smiling.

"Take a seat," he said. "And after you do that, why don't you explain to me exactly why you sent D-067 into SCP-058's containment chamber?"

"What?"

"I went over 058's documentation again the other day, and it just seemed a little strange to me that you didn't use the built-in sound system in that chamber instead. Why was that?"

"Uh-" Johnston began, but it turned out to have been a rhetorical question.

"Ds aren't expendable, you know. And if there's one thing I hate more than arrogant assholes who take joy in their coworkers' misfortune, send mistreated research assistants to do their dirty work, and take stuff from peoples' offices without permission, it's wastefulness."

"Uh," he repeated.

"Tell me, Aimes - do you know what 'exponential recombination' is?"

Unfortunately, he did. "Yes, sir."

"Good. It happened to somebody yesterday, and now I've got an opening to fill."

Johnston blanched. "W-what?" he stammered.

"Don't worry, I'll have someone collect the 058 tapes from your office."

Conrad had lost track of how long he'd been in the IKEA. He'd spent most of that time transcribing 058's fresh load of bullshit. It wasn't going well. There was nothing new here - or, rather, there was everything new. No repeat phrases, not even that damned "drooling path". Just more and more indecipherable gibberish. Maybe if he'd still had his notes he could've cross-referenced and found something meaningful, but with nothing but the phone and a notepad he was effectively starting over from scratch. The only reason he hadn't given up already was because he wouldn't know what else to do if he did. At least he was too busy frantically writing to think too much about his sorry situation.

Foundation personnel learn early on that things can always get worse, but knowing it's going to happen rarely makes it any easier to deal with. That's why, when the lights shut off with a startling THUNK, Conrad shouted "Fuck!" in equal parts surprise and frustration. The phone slipped out of his sweaty hand when he jumped, rattling loudly as it bounced off the counter and then the floor. 058's whispers mocked him as it dangled somewhere near his feet.

"Dammit, dammit, dammit…" he muttered, trying to fish out his key ring. There was a little flashlight on there. It didn't have much battery life, but hopefully it'd be enough to find something soft to sleep on. He didn't have much else to do, with the lights off.

Naturally, the keys snagged on his pants, yanked themselves out of his hand, and clattered unseen to the floor.

"Dammit!" Grunting, Conrad dropped to his cramped hands and aching knees to fumble for the keys.

"Damn fuckin' drooling path keys flashlight stupid-ass hotel fifty-eight Gorbachev bullshit midden sundowns and friggin' lamb trees in autumn nameless slug that crawls electricity from eye to evening - aha!" Triumphantly, he grasped the flashlight and turned it on with a click. Then he tried to stand up and immediately smacked his head on the bottom of the counter.

"Shit!" he cried. Carefully, Conrad crawled backwards until he was clear. He noticed the whispering phone dangling beside his head, so he grabbed it as he creaked back to a standing position. He almost put it back on the hook without bringing to his ear again, but just couldn't bring himself to do it. He cast the flashlight beam on his notepad with a defeated sigh. There was one last thing he could try.

"Fifty-eight?" he asked. "Or, whatever you are?"

"I feel the pain of a million madmen, clinging clamorously to the medusoid apocrypha."

"I don't know if you can actually hear me, but if you can, please just listen to me for a second."

"We twist and turn through the kaleidoscopic horrors of black bile, yet we never look to think of what the eyeless statues meant to tell no one."

"I've spent so much time trying to find you, trying to solve this. I've thrown away I don't know how many years of my life, and now whatever ones I had left when I ran into this…place where you sent me. Please, just tell me something, anything. Give me some kind of answer! Let me know that my work, my life had worth!"

Then, for the first time ever, 058 stopped talking.

Conrad's breath caught in his throat.

His stomach did a backflip.

He thought his heart might stop.

The only sound was the furious pounding of blood in his ears.

And then it spoke.

"The sensual violence of lust is all the assurance you will ever need to know the worth of life."

With all the finality of a guillotine, the line went dead.

Conrad dropped the phone. He sank unsteadily to a seat, to avoid falling over. He gasped a few times, like a fish, too stunned to really think about what had just happened.

"Excuse me, sir," someone asked.

Conrad jumped. "Huh?!" he cried, nearly pitching from his chair. He swung the flashlight toward the sound of the voice and found himself looking at the smooth, faceless head of one of the "store's" employees. Lack of a mouth didn't stop it from talking, though, just as it had never stopped 058. But unlike 058, it only had one thing to say.

"The store is now closed. Please exit the building."

...where the blood red journey ends.