Creaking at the Seams - SCP Foundation

Most wizards do not like change. They are creatures of habit, their customs perhaps born from the years of isolation and sacrifice it takes to truly master their Art. Most wizards spend their entire lives like they spend their childhoods: alone with their thoughts in a mind fortress built from carefully chosen stones, a vast but lonely library of ancient knowledge built on the illusion of stability that conservatism offers. Most wizards find it comforting, the idea that they are safe in their dark, now and forever; they find the idea of changing their ways — of stepping into that awful, dangerous tomorrow, unprepared with the fortifications of their own solitude — almost anathema to their existence.

But most wizards are also dead, the legacy of their work forgotten by history.

Ti'adhgt Ai'n isn't like most wizards.

In truth, most find it difficult believing that he even is one. Even as a Fae, a creature born of magic, he wears no robes and bears no staves; he casts no flames and brews no potions; he barely even uses the Art at all, in spite of his upbringing and his people. Still, even in his post-Sixth Occult War day and age, he bears the knowledge that comes with his position and vast talent all the same, though he utilizes it to do something more important than being an expert in the occult: he uses it to make money. And he's damned good at it.

He has no equals, this side of the continent, and he spends each of his days carefully making sure that remains the case. For most people he considers potential enemies, just showing the true might of his criminal occult empire is more than enough to force them away; but only most. He might be a predator and a damned good one at that, but even predators have adversaries — and Ti'adhgt fears that Richard Chappell might even be one of them. Him and his Spirit, a gang of pitiable humans thinking they can take Chicago and the New World all for themselves. Thinking they can just come in and take what is his by right. Forgetting the true owners of this profitable market, they think they can somehow outdo the gangs of Esterbergian might that came here with the first ships that crossed the ocean more than a century ago.

Officially, Ti'adhgt would never admit that he considers Chappell anything but amusement — he has to maintain a facade of an apex hunter, unafraid of anyone and anything, bearing no equals in this part of the magical underworld. His weight class isn't that of a battlemage, but he's battle-scarred all right, and this petty little reality bender is nothing but just another fight, just another parahuman laid low on Ti'adhgt's road to greatness.

But that's only a masquerade; deep down, he knows that the Spirit and its people are a formidable and unbent enemy, even to his own people, prolific in more Arts than there are human languages. So tonight, in spite of all his public appearances, he is meeting with the with only other man he could officially consider a predator equal to Chappell and himself: Percival Darke, the Deathless Merchant of London.

To get the attention of He Who Bargains With Death for long enough to even appoint a meeting is no easy task, but here he is, right in Ti'adhgt's office, eagerly awaiting his arrival — ready to bargain with him, too. Ti'adhgt hates Darke like almost nobody else, him and his damned merchants thinking they can own his world all by themselves, but tonight, he has to chain the wolf inside him, silencing its screams to go right for the throat and take what is his by right. He does this because tonight, there is a larger gamble to win than just personal vendettas and hurt egos — tonight, the line ticks over the potential destruction of Chappell's own up-and-coming empire.

"Mr. Ai'n," Darke says, his pronunciation of Ti'adhgt's name bordering on proficient. "May I finally ask what is so important that we have to meet in person?" His words might point to a different conclusion, but Darke's tone is nothing if not patient and polite; a smaller man would easily be irritated by Ti'adhgt's tactics, but he can see that the Merchant is nothing if not a worthy player. He resists the urge to smile.

"Ah, but Percy — is it alright if I call you Percy? — a journey across the ocean shouldn't be hard for a fish as big as you, no?" Ti'adhgt sits down across Darke and flashes him a wolfish grin, trying to see if Darke's calm eyes will give in to the obvious provocation. They do not; instead, the man behind them just crosses his legs, slowly moving his head to look directly at Ti'adhgt.

"It is about business, then."

Ti'adhgt snaps his fingers. "Just like everything in life, Percy. Just like everything." He knows he's walking a thin line, here, provoking someone like Darke in such a crude manner, even if he thinks he could absolutely take him on — but he's also sure that by the end of the conversation, his gambit will have paid off.

Darke clears his throat. "So, care to get to the point?"

"Of course." Ti'adhgt smiles a polite smile and puts his hands together. "As we both know, we both take… keen interest, in the operations of one Richard Chappell around these parts. Though on different sides of the—"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Ti'adhgt sighs. "Like I was saying, as we both know: he likes your money, Percy. You also like his money. It's a good business, isn't it?" He tilts his head. "Come in, give the man what he needs to get big, and then take back what he owes you. He is happy, you are happy, everyone is happy. You're even smart about it, too!" Ti'adhgt grins. "Using trains made from iron to keep my guys away? Making bullets from irrilite? That's brilliant. Genuinely brilliant. Couldn't have thought of it better myself. It's clean, it's efficient, and at the end of the day, it leaves everyone — even that old fool from the Factory with his supply chain — big and happy."

Darke narrows his eyes. Ti'adhgt clicks his tongue. "Here's the issue, though — I really, really, really do not like Chappell's money. It's dirty, it's annoying, and it gets all over my turf. My turf!" He lets his teeth show for a second. "It's also hard to drive out, where even possible. It's a pain in my ass." He pauses. "But I do like your money. I like your money very much, Mr. Darke," he says, his emphasis on the last two words almost reeking of unrestrained hunger.

Darke looks almost surprised — whether at the sheer gall of Ti'adhgt's words or their content, the Fae isn't quite sure. "What are you even trying to say, Mr. Ai'n? I don't care much for elaborate metaphors. I'm a man of business." He moves his whole body closer, leaning more heavily on the desk that separates them both. "So give it to me straight."

"What I'm trying to say is, you and me? We have time. A few centuries at least. Our magic makes sure of that, does it not?" He grins at the barely noticeable spark of appreciation flying across the ageless merchant's eyes. "But Chappell? Sure, he might bend reality to his will, but that's crude, isn't it? Barbaric, almost. He doesn't know how to wield his skills, and besides, he's got little more than that. I give him a few decades at most, if someone bigger than him doesn't take him out before that. He's got no patience, too. Just a short fuse that burns bright for a few years before going out with a bang."

He continues, "Right now, you are bound to him. With your money and the Factory's gear, sure, you will probably snuff me out, eventually. Chappell could never take me on in combat, but he doesn't have to — he has more men and gear. But what gain lies there? Give him a few decades, and Chappell will forget who put him on his throne. And when he does, he will either die like an old, mortal dog or take you out with the gear you gave him." He pauses for a moment. "You see what I'm getting at, here?"

Darke considers for a moment. "Yes. I think I do. But none of that changes two facts: that I am bound by my word to Chappell, and that I am bound by my signature to Rollander."

Ti'adhgt scoffs. "Please. The first one only keeps on living because the second one thinks business with you is efficient. And, ah, how do I put it… I have heard rumors, from my friends over at the continent, that around Rollander's domain, leadership… well. It changed, Mr. Darke." He pauses, looking deep into Darke's eyes, searching for some spark of shock. He finds none, so he continues, "The Foundation. They took over, Darke. Went right in and hanged Rollander by his balls. They control the Factory, now."

It is now Darke who scoffs. "They are fools if they think anyone can control the Factory. They know nothing of the beast that lurks within. Neither did Rollander, but at least he was good at restraining it for profit. This changes nothing. Sooner or later, the beast below will take over again, and when that happens, I will be waiting. As will Chappell."

Ti'adhgt rolls his eyes. "Not unless I win first. Without his trains and his weapons, Chapell is nothing against the magic of my people. And we don't need an outside contractor to provide us with it, Darke."

For a second, Darke considers. "Perhaps."

"Chappell is a child, desperate enough for power that he's willing to try and sit at the table with the adults." He is barely able to contain the rage that flashes inside him, now. "I don't mean for this meeting to be an insult to you, Darke. I mean for it to be a chance, given by me to someone I consider an equal, to rectify your mistake. Stop supporting the kid who grapples with the fabric of reality without understanding it and back your money where it is truly safe — with the man who has enough talent and skill to blow this whole room with just a flicker of his hands."

For emphasis, Ti'adhgt lets a pillar of purple flame dance around his palm for just a second. In response, Darke simply corrects his tie, making sure that Ti'adhgt notices the irrilite necklace behind it. "I think you'd be surprised to find how ineffective that would be," he says, just a hint of smug satisfaction present in his voice. "But I digress. I see your argument. I will consider it. I will consider it very carefully," he says, and stands up. Ti'adhgt does not.

"Oh, and before you leave, Mr. Darke," Ti'adhgt says, noticing the merchant's hand on the handle of his doors. "If you choose to stay in your decision, today, consider one last thing: is it really not worth losing a piece to win the game?"

The veils fall down the second Darke leaves the room.

Where before there stood just Ti'adhgt now stand five different figures, the outlines of his inner circle now no longer obscured by spells. Still, for just a moment, they wait for Ti'adhgt's approval, a word it's safe to officially join him in his office. Seeing their hesitation he nods, and the four step forward, their eyes focused only on their boss.

For a few infinitely long seconds, all that fills the room is a tense hunger without direction, the feeling radiating from each of the five people in the general direction of everything that isn't immediately theirs.

"You think he bought it?" the first one asks, nervously looking at her long, jade-colored nails. She would never admit it, but Ti'adhgt sees her posture betray her uncertainty.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Only time will tell." Ti'adhgt pauses for a moment to consider, then turns to face the rest of his henchmen. "He was sure you were there, though. That much I'm certain. He's a fool, but he's a fool that comes prepared."

"That's irrelevant," the second figure retorts, its hands hidden behind its immaculately-groomed silver suit. "Darke knew that he was coming into our lair when he agreed upon a meeting. He was never expecting anything but danger the moment he stepped through those doors. What we gave him was mercy. He should be thankful."

"Oh, don't be petty," the third one says, ver voice bordering on amusement. "He wouldn't go down without a fight. A messy one, at that. Let's just be glad the negotiations went this well. We can't afford any unnecessary risks. Not with how many of our people have marched out against the Factory."

The fourth one scoffs. "The negotiations? That wasn't a negotiation. That was us telling him how things will be from now on. He never had the right to choose a different outcome, if he wanted to walk through those doors alive." Xe turns to face Ti'adhgt, xer sharp features still visible despite xer age. "I do believe we got him, yes. Quite well, in fact."

As usual, the fifth figure doesn't say anything. He just nods and crosses his steam-powered arms, similarly staring at the man that owns him.

"So," Ti'adhgt says, putting his hands together and eyeing his men. "What is our next step? The Factory has fallen. That much is certain." He looks at his first advisor, the unasked question hanging in the air between them. When she nods to confirm, he continues, "Without Rollander's support, Darke has too little confidence that business will go as smoothly as before. And that's not good enough. Not for him."

He pauses for a moment to consider. "I give him two weeks to give in. At the very maximum. He might not like the fact he has to change sides, but he'll eventually come around." He takes a deep breath and stands up, turning his back to his men. He's looking at the doors, now, his hands put behind his back, but can still feel the hunger and anticipation oozing from their postures. He resists the urge to smile, and turns back to face them once more. "But before that happens, we lay low and wait for his support to strike. And then, my friends, we go for the kill. Chappell will not last long enough for history to remember him."

He grins, and the four join him — even the fifth member, so usually stoic. For a few seconds, they speak no words and exchange no gestures — they just stand there, eyeing each other in smug satisfaction, knowing that what was always meant to be theirs by right will finally come into their grasp. His men are silent, but Ti'adhgt needs no speeches to know that they are almost bursting with anticipation, the hunger inside them burning with such a terrible need to get what it wants that it almost renders them unable to think.

He doesn't need speeches because he sees it in their eyes, that awful, almost sexual desire for Chappell's turf and Darke's money, reflected right from their souls onto their irises.

And he knows that they can see it in his eyes, too.

He takes a moment to take it all in, the satisfaction almost—

Ti'adhgt narrows his eyes.

Something suddenly starts to buzz at the edge of his comprehension, ever so slightly irking at the strings of his soul; with his sixth sense, he can feel pressure building up in his ears and his heart, a terrible sensation like he's never felt before. He blinks once, and the feeling doubles, as if it's somehow come closer. He can sense it, now, almost as if he was seeing it with his very own eyes; a wave of darkness approaching from the east towards him and his people, its vastness bordering on incomprehensibility.

Could it be something Darke sent? An assassin, perhaps, meant to take him out, a cruel mockery of the laws of hospitality? A—

He suddenly knows what it is. His heart rate triples. He freezes in place, unable to move. He can barely believe it, but he realizes that what he is sensing is magic. A wave of terrible, awful, inhuman dark magic on a scale that he has never seen before. It is not the work of Darke. No mortal could ever unleash something so boundless.

And it is coming straight for him and all of his people.

The realization knocks the wind out of his lungs.

He tries to speak to his men, to try and warn them, but for them it is already too late — they were never on his level of pure thaumic muscle, and that gap is what renders their reaction to be ever so slightly slower. When he already knows what is about to transpire they only begin to catch a glimpse of their inevitable fate, the realization reflected in their eyes, now no longer that of a predator but of prey, terrified for its life for the first time in decades, and—

He swallows as he sees his men freeze, but decides he can no longer afford such luxuries. He knows he has three seconds at most, so he reaches to the deepest parts of his brain — those that are concerned with magic and the arcane and the sigils and the runes instead of business — and tries to grab onto something, anything, that might help him: any words and any spells that protect him, and when he finds the little that still remains there he takes it and he throws it and he—

It is not enough. Not nearly enough to shield himself against what is coming.

A sudden howling wind blows right through his office, one that breaks the windows, shattering the glass right upon his carpetted floor, an echo of terrible laughter running right past it, and—

Where before stood five of his advisors now nothing remains; it's only ash and lost Names, a mockery of his people, a—

He feels the wave crash through his shield, its oppressive, incomprehensible mass breaking every bone and muscle of his soul, its burning torture wanting to find his own being, his own Name, and take it all for itself, and—

With all his might he tries to push back, using every part of his laughably small arsenal against this impossible enemy, and he partially succeeds, pushing just enough away for it to not take him whole, but he can still feel its cold claws dig right into his body and his mind and his soul and everything that he ever thought was his, and—

And then

there's

darkness.

He awakes again to blackness so vast it is almost incomprehensible. It takes him a few seconds to realize that he is simply dead.

He tries to slowly stand up, but finds that he has no longer any legs — or any body, for that matter — to call his own. No. That's impossible. That's impossible, he tries to say to himself, but realizes that it's the truth, it's the terrible, living truth that he has to face: for the first time since he was born, he has nothing. His body and mind, his empire and his business, his men and his power — all stripped from him, as if it was never there. He—

No. That isn't true. He still has something left. He knows it before he can form thoughts with a brain that isn't there — despite the death of his body and mind, the being that had once been Ti'adhgt Ai'n still has its Name and soul intact, both stuck in some state of semi-death right between worlds. He breathes an irreal sigh of relief. At least that much remained. That little. He can never afford to lose it.

The second the realization dawns on him, the void before him starts to move. His whole being irks with the need to have it.

It is subtle, at first, but with each second he continues lingering on the ripples in nonexistence spin ever so faster and ever so closer, the movement almost hypnotic in its terrifying beauty, and—

Without hesitation, he reaches for the only thing he can possibly still own.

The magic all around him, the scattered energy of his talent left there as ambiance the second the wave hit him — it touches Ti'adhgt's very soul. It is an ugly, scared, deeply hungry thing of a being left inside this nonsensical state — so the magic fills in the missing blanks. Ti'adhgt has no memory of how he used to look, no longer having access to any remembrance — so the energy takes the only emotions still left inside him — unfiltered greed and fear, a desperate need to retain what little of him still remains — and molds them into a form most adequate.

When the process is finished, Ti'adhgt stretches his far too many fingers.

The magic is gone, now, its essence molded into what has become of Ti'adhgt. He hates losing it — losing something that was his — so much that words can barely describe it, but he knows that he hasn't lost everything. His Name. It's still in him, buried deep inside his new form. He realizes that this is all he has left, in a once mighty soul, now reformed to be little more than a spirit unraveling at its ends. He also realizes that he fears nothing more than losing it. The only thing still his, in the whole wide world.

He'll bend heaven and earth to keep what little he still has left.

He disappears into the vast darkness around him, just one thought lingering inside his mind:

Keep. Keep. Keep.