Onus Entire - SCP Foundation

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BENEATH THESE CRAGS LIES A BALEFUL EXISTENCE

bearing malice, born of it

devouring spite, devoured by it

BREATHS PERSIST DESPITE DISMEMBERMENT

to stray here is to perish

to linger forfeits peaceful death

RESPECT EVERY BARRICADE

do not trespass

HEED EVERY GUARD

do not trespass

OBEY THIS WARNING ACROSS PASSING ERAS

no gods sit here

no treasure is hidden

no monsters require slaying

no challenge will fortify aspirants

no satisfaction or serenity survives this smog

PRAY EMPERORS ARE NEVER ENTHRONED AGAIN

—Enchanted signs surrounding Mt. Perfidy

Smokestack fortresses strewn across the mountain's lower peaks continued firing with all available weaponry as Mealworm disembarked from Aster's shell with her company in tow. Stovepipe bastions rose in clusters there, housing twin orders whose charge has been protecting a coffin ever since their founder-made-hero filled it. Shards of rock flew wherever cannonshot landed, pelting their surroundings as clouds of dust merged with smog curling from the mountain's pores; slugs whizzed by in tandem, fired by hands too expert to be wasted on most battlefields. Pinpricks spread beneath calluses and scabs with every sincere attempt on her life. How wonderful to finally be where she belonged again, especially with Aster expressing enough glee for them both through external speakers.

"Will throwing rocks come next? Is this why your fortress is feared? Fight properly or turn tail faster!"

Both secondary PACERs continued firing their cannons. Each protruded far from steel-bound spines, and each shot ejected a casing large enough to crawl inside. Those thudded down amid mud and trampled weeds as one of the smokestacks collapsed beneath a direct hit. Stones tumbled out of the oil-slick smog. Bodies followed. All were so small that they barely registered to Mealworm's eyes—not with a breathing mask sealed tight over her face. Twin retorts echoed in slight offsets again and again, thunder following them to a heavily fortified gateway in the mountainside.

Although built in an age already subsumed by myth, that blast door was sturdier than any fitted to castles since. Dark, pitted, it seemed ready to stand against thousands of rams and their countless handlers. With how the symbols carved into black iron thrummed with otherworldly power, it may have even withstood the might wizards cultivated. One of Aster's legs broke through with ease nearing contempt.

The specters who followed Mealworm inside were no less contemptuous. For this place. For this world. Where elegant elven fingers should carry a whipblade, they instead cradled gunmetal. Where standards should flutter, there was only muted cloth over ablative plating. Indeed, where cries should herald the start of battle, there were only rattling respirators carefully extracted from aircraft. Stereotypes one and all, but then again, wasn't discarding such notions amidst a scramble for survival one of war's blessings? Perhaps this world would feel less onerous had violence not been so neatly contained within Cherinmark—a place for proper kingdoms to conduct proper bloodshed without suffering proper consequences.

Yes, consequences occupied most present minds as they proceeded down a corridor where torches contributed to the general haze. Groups of two and three split off at junctions marked on her stolen blueprints. Toward nodes in the pneumatic tube network interconnecting disparate fortresses. To where massive boilers exploited emanations from the crypt buried far below. Everyone else remained in a singular pack, stalking through halls that widened from little more than maintenance corridors into something approximating a proper living space—at least, it had before the ever-thickening smog reclaimed this portion of the mountain for its own.

Acolytes from the Order of the Leaden Coffin began appearing too. Workers in bulky beige suits were allowed to flee as fast as they could; neither prisoners nor corpses served any purpose at that point. Besides, they only had so much ammunition for modern weapons to spare. It was the lighter-equipped acolytes who proved troublesome, firing smooth-bore rifles from cover as they encroached upon a great hall that would allow them into the fortress proper. Through gloom, through smog, there was no telling how many were fighting, especially when the chatter of automatic weapons joined from both sides. Even this archaic group had adapted better than the chivalric assholes prancing around outside.

"Galowyn, suppressing fire," was the only sort of order she needed to give by then. With one hand fixed to the sword hanging from her tool belt—pommel hazy, grip indistinct, scabbard difficult to look at without eyes watering—and the other loosely gripping a pistol, little else could be done at the moment. "Calbor, sniper up top. Samson, with me."

Mealworm's small frame proved useful as ever for flitting between cover as they pressed forward. Corridor to pillar. Pillar to palisade. Palisade to steep stone steps. Mere adrenaline couldn't explain the elation of once again being a cog in this mechanism, a creature within its ecosystem; oh, and what niche remained unfilled aside from apex predator? Shifting the tubed apparatus off her face, she brought a matte orange inhaler between chapped lips and breathed ever so deep.

Despite its packaging, 'the stim' was in fact derived from native flora. Grown in pools suffused with moonlight, fortified by sap dripping off certain boughs, those water lilies were normally brewed into a tea whose mild psychoactivity held any number of benefits. But then again, why not grind, filter, and distill them instead, channeling nectar-thick liquid into miles of laboratory equipment? Why not wrench a fourth and fifth eye open after the third, boring straight through os frontis to better perceive that which lies beneath? The Foundation proved all too happy to turn those augers inward.

Synesthesia. Cryptaesthesia. Streams of information normally beyond human perception funnel into new channels, currents driving receptive minds to faster speeds, skipping ever more rungs within any given logic. Consciousness and subconsciousness fracture thus, reassembling into a jigsaw of true-thought and true-self that requires no consideration before taking action. The being who sees is fundamentally different from those who don't—its decisions, its calculi, its self-imposed centrality all reject understanding. To inhale is to supplant a baser self who shies and quivers beneath extraneous worry. To exhale is to shift the world by every axis available.

"A monster," concluded Senior Brother van Ulmen. He tugged his beard while considering the scrying pool, looking down upon a shade in the east grand stairwell. Ripples ran across the mirror-smooth surface with each shot against Mt. Perfidy's outer layers, but it was those loosed within that drew greater concern. Striking acolytes the second they emerged around a corner, then those outside of any possible sight line. Into nooks behind tapestries. Through slots in doors. "We may need to update the warnings in case proper slayers arrive."

"'Tis hardly a time for jokes," said Senior Sister Matalo. Sweat glistened on her smooth pate as eyes raked across smaller pools that more fully captured their orders' tribulation. Tasseled robes shifted in the slow, steady breeze that permeated the entire mountain and its outgrown towers.

"Ah, but it never truly is. Do innocents not pass every moment in this transient world? At least here we are immersed in sinful breath from beginning to end."

"Save such musings for meditation." She clicked between notches on a copper disc that protruded from the apparatus. Lenses shifted in turn, their constellation refocusing through layers of steam that accumulated within the stairwell. Between thick clouds and disorderly messages from their tube system, such arcana was the only means available to track invaders. "My sisters should be marshaled in the anterior gathering chamber by now. Pull your brothers back and destroy the passageways before it is too late."

"They show no sign of seeking another course. Let us harry them for as long as possible."

"If you think your sacrifices to not be in vain…"

"Aren't they all by moonrise? I venture none will regret their role regardless."

Although responsible for many more matters within the mountain and without, both were drawn back to the scene before them. How easy it was to become entranced by that overburdened figure who nonetheless moved like a creature possessed—perhaps even as St. Sibiasten themself once battled against the hordes pouring forth from Mt. Perfidy's maw. How efficiently she shifted between victims while climbing at an even pace, left hand only leaving her sword's pommel when reloading became necessary. As if embodying a set of mathematical equations to optimize slaughter. As if knowing its ebbs and flows better than oceans' understood their own. A few lagging shades were picked off from behind, expressing none of their spearhead's preternatural awareness, but even that didn't slow the climb. If only it was clearer what drove such a hopeless assault.

It seemed a question to never be answered as that handful of intruders emerged into a gathering chamber whose windows normally showed sunsets refracted by pollution. They now captured distant flashes as the mountain trembled, witnessed only by eighty soldiers who were each blessed and equipped to battle against what once reigned from those very halls. Bolstering their ranks were brave ogres who had called the lowest tunnels home long before emperors ever set foot above. Sonic magicks buffeted the intruders as gatling guns spun into motion with barrels squarely trained, and for a moment, Senior Brother van Ulmen allowed tension to seep from his clenched shoulders.

Of all the muffled noise that spilled forth, only a few words cut clean: "Oh, harvester mine! Consider this bounty offered in full."

Raw static exploded into the chamber. Its amorphous tendrils whipped from that foremost intruder—from her scabbard specifically, lashing across warriors trained and untrained both in a wave that brooked no quarter. Everything it touched fell apart. Skin lost coherency. Bones lost density. What wrapped between and around them fared no better, sloughing off into piles that couldn't even be called meat. Pillars slumped and windows bubbled, weapons dissolved in now-insufficient hands, and it seemed nothing was safe as their view filled with destructive noise. Both elders jerked back as a column blasted upward from the scrying pool too. Forcing itself through that pinhole aperture in reality, it savaged gnome-crafted lenses and dwarf-beaten metal beyond repair; it snapped at flesh just as fiercely, chewing apart Ulmen's misplaced hand in the briefest moment before being cut off. Only listing equipment and dripping water remained in its wake.

"The blade salvaged from Fort Gräd," he groaned as younger acolytes rushed forward to help. "But why risk disturbing the casket if capturing it is not their intent?"

"Why else, you old fool? If endangering the world comes easily, they cannot but yearn to leave it behind." Matalo waved over a messenger from her order as he was minded by members of his own. "Summon every able warrior to the upper levels. Stall the battle outside if need be, but we must stave off their ascent. Allow no trespass upon the gap!"

The iron key hanging from Mealworm's neck felt heavy enough to snap its chain as she staggered out of that expansive hall. Worse was the weight at her hip. Like every member of Alpha-85, she knew the thirteen blades all too well—bestowed upon their task force by members of the Foundation so senior that even the OPCOM could only call them "leadership" without sweating. She knew their effects too, having seen wielders simply drop in place after drawing too deeply. TAPEWORM TANGIBLE hadn't even cleared the scabbard this time, but it still felt like her heart might explode at any moment with how fast it hammered. As if mortal effort alone could keep internal masses from growing larger. Indeed, between that and the leftover stim, keeling over shouldn't surprise anyone.

"There are worse places to die," said Galowyn, who might have seemed telepathic had it not been a fixation of his already. The disgraced knight kept his carbine loose at one side while ushering Mealworm upward by the scruff of her jacket.

"Worse cults to be slain by too," said Calbor. The dwarf's weapons had strayed too close to static, but salvaging from the sludge-filled chamber below produced plenty of replacements. "A few shots nearly took my head off back there."

"I wouldn't recommend that one," added another temporary ally, tapping where magic had reversed her near-cataclysmic brain injury while leaving wretched dreams behind.

So it went, morbidity filling gaps in gunfire that stretched on longer and longer. Most defenders had clearly retreated toward the peak, leaving only bastions that were too entrenched and too peripheral to dig out, yet dangerous enough to slow their progress. So resolutely offering that sacrifice for a few extra minutes was nothing short of commendable. Perhaps the war would have played out differently if the Order of the Leaden Coffin had bothered leaving its fortress. Burgeoning respect didn't stop her from kicking a stray grenade back toward its owner though, nor from gesturing for Galowyn to finish bashing another acolyte's skull in after his desperate ambush failed. After all, it was commendable warriors who stood the best chance of defeating them.

Up, and up, and up along grand staircases that spiraled around statues carved from black obsidian, then through passages barely wide enough to fit them single-file. Translating blueprints to reality was always an uncertain science, especially when navigating by the glow of Mt. Perfidy's craters alone. Slit windows caught little more, each casting their procession in grim tones whose contrast further obscured boltholes and those lurking within. That a bullet smashed sideways through Calbor's temple barely went remarked upon aside from firearms' natural retorts. They should all be so lucky.

Ten flights turned to twenty, each with casualties inherent, until only nine shades remained with some thirty bullets between them. Knives and bayonets emerged instead, but not Mealworm's sword. Never that sword if there was any helping it. Instead, she toyed with the oblong beacon tucked in one pouch at her side. A key for a key. A means of opening one last vault where true treasure lay.

They paused when only a few levels of switchback stairs remained before reaching Upper Repository 16—simple labels for assets nodes, as ever. A mixture of sweat and soot caked everyone present, and water was far too precious for anything but drinking. Mealworm nonetheless passed her canteen to Galowyn. He drank the rest without hesitation. "Last chance to take my head back to Pardusht," she said after grabbing it from his paw. "Though Allaingar might want to mount it more by now. Or Baeste, if they ever figure out who burned their caches."

"I might say the same," he said, scratching at the boundary where mask re-sealed to skin. "My house would pay a princely sum to finally lay its worries to rest."

"Not as much as the Foundation will pay for me," added a third soldier, joined by nods from a fourth, both of whom Mealworm flipped off in turn.

"We'll see whose bounty is highest after crawling out of here. Ten minutes."

She split off into an otherwise unmarked tunnel that planning documents had identified in their consideration of the 'coffin problem.' How to attack that central fortress, how to defend it… all she needed was the angular fault they identified though, an offhanded mention by geologists about how disastrous stimulating such features might prove.

Mealworm tossed the beacon into that narrow gap. It audibly pinged while bouncing out of sight, but far more detailed information poured through channels that made her third, fourth, and fifth eyes water, howling data on its surrounding topography to every sensor for miles around. Only a distant whine came in response as she sprinted away. Groaning. Keening. It built higher and higher in the back of her head, reaching a pitch that resonated within bone, within distant bioreactors, until tension finally discharged with a faint wumph. Light that seared bright enough to illuminate bones through skin barely made additional sound as twin lances pierced Mt. Perfidy, each PACER's detonation cutting through smog in more ways than one.

The mountain cracked like a nut where they intersected. Stone and slag sloughed from its peak, careening down with a rumble that shook those inside worse than any earthquake or eruption. Torches sputtered. Rare lightbulbs exploded. Pipes burst and vents flared as passageways twisted out of shape or were flattened entirely. More smog poured forth than ever before, the mountain's heaving breaths subsuming every inhabitant, but none of it prevented Mealworm from rushing to the backside of Upper Repository 16. What was another concussion? What did a little poisoning matter? Little and less, especially when she found the reinforced wall sundered without any guards in sight.

Her key rattled freely by then, tugging at its chain with each jerk toward the phosphorescent gash hanging in open air. When sealed, the gap between worlds seemed a scar barely healed, oozing blue pus that dissipated the instant it fell. Stumbling, scrambling, she climbed a pile of rubble, drawn along by that mysterious attraction and the decade of planning it promised to fulfill. Each flap pulled harder against immaterial stitches, and presenting the key was all Mealworm could do before its jerking snapped her neck outright. Once opened, there would be no closing the gap from Earthside, no stemming the flow of caustic smog into whichever city the Order had spent decades covertly trading with. Only renewed intrusion and a quest for her key offered any hope of that. And what intrusion was never followed by another?

Mealworm extended that lump of ancient iron toward the gap and was immediately yanked backward again.

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