In June, I Change My Tune - SCP Foundation

ArthCymro

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Terry sat on the cold cell bed, taking quick rapid breaths to try and calm down. For the past thirty minutes, he'd been going through a cycle of delusion and doubt. It would start with him convincing himself that something was moving in the shadows in the corners of his cell. But then he'd remember that was stupid and that there couldn't be anything there. Only he was here. So he'd put the idea out of his mind. Then something would move in the other corners of the room.

Remembering what Dr. Dafydd had told him, Terry pressed the tips of his fingers to his mouth and murmured his mantra. "Your name is Terrance Quince. You are 31 years old. You were born in Cork, Ireland. You have a degree in Civil Engineering. You have a dog named Bertie." He swallowed and repeated himself. At least 20 times. That's what Dafydd had said. He repeated the words, swallowed, and started again.

"Your name is Terrance Quince. You are 31 years old. You were born in Cork, Ireland. You have - "

Something fluttered in the corner next to his cell's bed. Terry jerked his head for a second, avoiding thinking something was there. He focused once again.

"Your name is Terrance Quince. You are 31 years old. You were born in Cork, Ireland. You have a degree in Civil Engineering. You have a dog named - a dog named - a dog - "

He opened his eyes. The fluttering had stopped. But something else had gone.

"Tea," said Arthur, holding up a small teapot. Zachary, not taking his gaze away from the window, gave a small shake of the head. "You should drink something. You never know when you'll be thirsty. That's why I always carry a flask."

"I'll have something in a minute, Art."

Zachary wasn't really listening. He was watching the people in the street below, his vision jumping from one to the other and back again. "Twenty-five thousand," he thought, "One in two hundred and forty thousand." Despite the fact the statistics pointed to low chances, the numbers still made him nervous. "Any of them could be one. And they'd have no idea."

He came to when Arthur pressed a hot mug between him and the glass, beaming like a child holding up a finger painting and looking for approval. Zachary rolled his eyes and took the mug. It was one of those cartoon animal ones that you'd get from cereal boxes as prizes, made for commercial gain rather than practicality. "It will do you the world of good," Arthur chuckled, wagging a finger in no particular direction. Zachary smiled weakly and took a small gulp whilst Arthur parked himself into an armchair under the bookshelves.

"Aren't you going to take your gloves off," Arthur asked, spooning large piles of sugar into his cup. For a split second, a sign of panic flashed in Zachary's face. As he took a seat near the window, he adjusted the gloves, almost instinctively, before briefly shaking his head, which was the only part of his body exposed. Arthur had never understood why Zachary never took them off. He'd always thought that they, along with his blue waistcoat and red bow tie, made him look like a party magician, rather than a psychoanalyst. However, style choice and clothing had always been variable in the Foundation, especially in the UK branches.

Arthur had put on weight since he'd been made head of Mythology And Folkloristics, though he still retained his bulky shape. His entire frame was squashed slightly into a green pinstripe suit, with the brown waistcoat just barely holding in his tummy flab. His long ginger hair fell neatly down the back of his blazer. That, along with the chair and the merry smile, really did make him look like a young Father Christmas.

"Drink your tea, Zach. Please," he pleaded, gesturing a sipping motion. Zachary looked down at the mug and made a face. The poor ceramic shape meant a few drops spilt out and dampened his trousers. Brushing the liquid into the fabric, Zachary looked back out towards the high street. From the pub over the road, he heard the sound of laughing and chatting. A few doors down, a group of people all jostled around drunkenly, trying to squeeze themselves into a four-seat taxi. Everyone was enjoying the warm, summer evening. It all seemed so safe and normal.

"You've got a nice view here. I wish I could have a permanent accommodation."

"Quit beating around the bush, Zach," sighed Arthur, leaning back, dropping his jolly demeanour and shooting Zachary a look of annoyance, "What's got you rattled?"

Zachary stroked the side of his cartoon dog mug with his thumb. It wasn't easy to put it into words. "I meet with Terry Quince on Monday."

Having run out of right thumb nail to bite, Terry switched from his left thumb to his right. He continued to walk up and down the cell, occasionally entering and exiting the bathroom, as if doing so would allow some solution to appear. Between the bites, he tried the mantra again. "Bobby? Biskit. It - it was a B. Or was - was it - a D? Dobs? Digger. What was his name!" He spat out the sarp pulp of nail bits and held his head in his hands, trying not to worry further. "Start again. Start again. Your name is Terrance Quince. You are 31 years old. You were born in - born in - "

Something moved in the blind stop between his eyes and his forehead. Just for a second. But that had been enough. The fear he felt for the past ten minutes had now evolved into a full panic. Terry began to gulp and shudder, doing his very best to hold back any weeps or screams. He tried. And tried.

"My, my, you do make it hard. That other guy's work didn't help either."

It was a strange voice. The kind of voice you heard in your head, in your mind. It was both familiar and alien. It made Terry stop at once. The entity was human in shape, with some of it sharing Terry's characteristics, yet it was different. The brown hair was longer and silkier, and the shape was reminiscent of Terry in his twenties, when Terry was much more muscular than overweight. The creature's skin was paler than Terry's, and its eyes were almost completely black except for a green iris in the centre. It also had delicate protrusions from its upper back, which looked like flower petals and had an iridescence sheen.

"Go - go awa - you're not real," spluttered Terry, pointing at the creature. It signed tiredly and smiled. Many of its teeth were sharp.

"Do you really mean that, or are you just wishing it," tittered the creature, walking along the dirt.

That was when Terry suddenly noticed they were no longer in his cell. The two stood in a damp, dilapidated forest, full of brambles and rotting branches. A soft wind was blowing. "This isn't really. Not real. I've just got to remember. That's what Dr. Dafydd said. Your name is Terrance Quince. You are 31 years old. You - "

"- were born in Cork, Ireland. I have a degree in Civil Engineering. I have a dog named Bertie," finished the creature.

Terry pointed a finger at the creature, trying hard to hide the fact it was shaking. "You - your - you're doing this. Taken my memories. Filling my mind with images and - and - things."

The creature laughed lightly and gestured its arms. Gracefully, it lifted into the air and began to hover slightly from the ground, its glassy petals moving in the wind delicately. "Those memories are just as much my memories as they are yours." The creature glided slowly toward Terry, stopping a few inches from his face. "Tell me, my good man. Are you happy?"

"Yes," blurted out Terry automatically, not really thinking.

"Liar."

Suddenly, the scene shifted. Both Terry and the creature now stood in an office. Terry recognised it instantly. Near the photocopier, he spotted himself talking to a woman. Suzie was her name. She'd recently broken up with her boyfriend and Terry had taken a chance. His mouth moved but no sounds came out. As Terry's double finished speaking, the woman gave it a pitying smile and rubbed its shoulder affectionally, but quickly. She then turned away, her attempts to mask the embarrassed smile failing.

"Stop it."

The scene shifted again. This time, Terry saw his duplicate sitting at the desk of his department head. The man parallel to him gave aggressive gestures towards Terry's work record before switching to a more passive movement. The duplicate smiled sadly, trying hard not to show how upset he was. It had been the same reasons. It had been another denial.

"You really aren't doing so well, are you?"

Everything shifted. It was the funeral. Terry was staring down at the coffin. At the gold plate that had his mother's name grave on it. At the square of dirt that seemed like a brown void, swallowing a small woman who had died slowly at a hospice Terry had paid for. Terry stared down. He didn't want to look his father or sister in the eye.

"Stop it!"

The man, who'd now forgotten his name, slammed his hand, which was suddenly much thinner and stiffer, against the concrete of the floor. The entity glided beside him and placed a cold hand on the man's back, rubbing it comfortingly.

"No. You haven't been happy in a long time, have you?"

By the time Zachary had finished, Arthur's face was alert and shocked. The tea in his mug was now lukewarm and forming a scum around the sides. "So that's what we've got so far," finished Zachary, his voice a little horse from all the talking. Arthur put a hand to his face and began stroking his beard aggressively. Now that it had been said, it all seemed to fit. The iron deficiency. The bursts of magic. The dreams. The Ways that formed around the babies.

"How many do we have registered?"

"About 500. That's just in the UK. Results for Europe are pending. Estimated to be around 25,000 in total. Worldwide."

Arthur picked up the file. The profile picture of the engineer stared back at him. Before, Arthur had looked at him and thought nothing. Now, knowing that the eyes in that picture had had two people looking out of them, Arthur felt disgusting. It felt invasive knowing that there was something else riding alongside him. Inside all of them. Waiting to come out.

"What happens to them? The people. The owners of the bodies these - parasites have infested."

"I think a kind of Invasion of the Body Snatchers Midwich Cuckoo Alzihmer mixture. When the thing inside is ready, it will push into the host's form and rewrite the physiology to fit something more comfortable. The host's consciousness is absorbed into the parasite's, meaning every memory and piece of information the host knows, the parasite will gain."

"It can be reversed," exclaimed Arthur, looking to Zachary for reassurance, "this engineer, Quince, he changed back."

"He only changed because we turned it on too early. When we introduced that solution into his body, the parasite panicked and pushed itself out."

"But we can stop it?"

"We can't risk any more treatments now we know what's happening in the host's mind," sighed Zachary, biting the tips of his gloves, "And we can't risk killing him because we don't want to alert whatever party is doing this that we know. Our only hope now is psionic suppression. Since the host has to have somewhat comply to grant full takeover, we just need to ensure their mental willpower can act as a kind of barrier, pushing the thing back."

"Will it work?"

Zachary shrugged and shook his head, doubtfully.

"Why," asked Arthur, "what is all this for? In myths, fairies would do the exchange because the baby is to be eaten as food or work as their servant. In some folktales, the replacement needs human breast milk to grow. I don't see anything like that here. They're just putting a soul into a body. Is this how they breed?"

"No, they mate like us. And even if they didn't, I don't think this is just a way to keep the species going. By the looks of it, this selection isn't as random as we think it is. The parasite's consciousness is dormant in the host's mind but can still influence some things. Memories, dreams and thoughts. Act like a guide."

"Like a fucked-up Jiminy Cricket."

"Exactly. And look." Zachary flicked through the register and pointed at the host's backgrounds. "Look at their lives. A lot of these people are invested in some substantial work. Banking, government, law, health care, philanthropy. Never anything small or ordinary. And now." Zachary pointed at the profile of Terry Quince. "One made their way here."

"You think Quince was influenced to join the Foundation?"

"Possibly," said Zachary, putting his mug of undrunk tea down on the coffee table. The two sat back in their chairs and looked out the window. The streets were quieter now and night had closed in. Already, a full moon was in view.

"What do you know about Avalon, Arthur? Or rather, Annwn?"

"Didn't it feel good," asked the entity in an oily tone, bending down and cupping its hands around the man's bony cheeks. Gently, it lifted the man up and held his head directly in front of its own. Its face was so familiar, thought the man. Almost as if it was one he'd seen many times before. "All that strength. That freedom. That power. You liked it, didn't you? Remember."

The entity gently rubbed its hand across the man's cheek, taking the tears away, before placing the now salted thumb into its mouth. As it did, an image filled the man's mind. One he'd viewed a few weeks ago.

He was flying. Bouncing off walls and speeding along corridors. Around him, stupid people were shouting something at him and holding up their metal toys. Within seconds, they were on the ground, bones broken and mouths filled with their own blood. Pressing a hand against the stone wall, he felt the rock in his palm crack pathetically. It had felt so good. It had felt nice to be the strong one. The big one. The best one.

"We can be like that again," said the entity, now lying on top of the man, its familiar face beaming down. In its eyes, the man saw his own face, now gaunt and skeletal, staring back. He was so weak now. So pathetic. He wanted it back. The strength. The power. The fear.

"It felt so good."

"It did, didn't it?"

The thing that had once been a man, who had once been Terry, who had once had a dog called Bertie, smiled weakly, thinking only of how good it had been. Terry, who'd once been a thing in the back of another mind, felt a shudder of pain and pleasure as their body changed into something more accurate.

"Let's - feel - good."

The guards at 44 were used to bangs and clashes in the containment chambers. Since this site worked mostly with animals and strange cryptids, it was completely natural to hear some screaming and occasional clanking. What was more worrying, was when that clanking became regular. And from the humanoid sector, came the sound of consistent shunting and banging.

The guards on duty, were new to the job and because they believed Cryptozoology to be a soft option department, did not really take their role seriously. Nevertheless, they rushed to the humanoid sector, firearms and cattle prod in hand, prepared for a fight, yet not really desiring to be in one. As soon as they opened the door, the banging ceased. Everything was very still.

"Check the cells," signed one of the guard and pointed at the doors on the right. The other nodded and stealthily moved across the wall, prod primed. At each window, he grabbed a quick peak and nodded back at his fellow guard. But once he got the cell marked SCP-6796 and began signalling in panicked gestures. The cell was empty.

But before either could so much as lift a finger, a hand burst through the glass and clutched the guards neck, an audible, wet crack sounding as it squeezed. The other guard, now properly ready, opened fire at the hand. The bullets flew in bursts of light and sound but they barely penetrated the hand's flesh. It then threw the dead body aside and clenched its fist. The bullets lodged in the skin flew out and hovered in front of the fist before flattening into thin disks. Then, with a snap of the hand's fingers, they zoomed across the corridor and logged themselves deep into the guard's chest, neck and jaw.

With the guards dead, the hand pressed its palm against the keypad, which sparked and smoked briefly, before the door opened. Now free, the entity, flexed and stretched, letting the last of its old form slip away. Within seconds, what had once been a rather pump, sweaty, 30-something-year-old human male, had shaped itself into a sleeker, muscular, elven form, with tapered ears and green eyes. "Now then," it said to itself, picking up guard's prod and passkey, "I wonder if I can remember the way out?"

Arthur had left his chair now. He was pacing the room and strumming his fingers, his face contorted in concentration. Now and again, he would take a sharp intake of breath, attempt to say something, then change his mind and continue pacing. Finally, he said, "So, you think, all of this has to do with some long-forgotten war? Those dreams? The island? These parasites? They're all connected?"

Zachary nodded. "I would guess. I'm tempted to say there may be other anomalies in our register that might be involved as well. But there are still pieces missing."

Arthur stopped suddenly and pointed down at Zachary. "You know - those things from that place we don't talk about. One of the victims. PoI-6796-102, I think. They were last seen entering a pub and lighting a fire. There were some feathers in the grate if I remember. And bone samples. You don't think -"

The sentence died on its way out when Arthur caught the look on Zachary's face. "Oh, god. If those things are involved, we're in deep shit. Remember what happened at Site-08, when that enormous face filled that room. Like some nightmarish Disney film. Is that what's coming Zach? A horrific Snow White production?"

At this comment, Zachary chuckled. "It's not funny, Zachary," exclaimed Arthur, knocking his teacup to the floor, pissing tea all over the carpet, "These things are everywhere! Half of the folktales I've uncovered involve them! We need to get this to Durrani. No! Fleming! Fleming will understand. And we'd need to alert our agents in the Free Ports. Three Portlands is a hotbed of activity -"

"Arthur. Stop it."

Arthur halted his bumbling. Zachary was fixing him with a cold glare, which quickly spooked Arthur into calm. Taking a few deep breaths, he sat down, pulling at his beard. "Sorry," he whispered sheepishly.

"You're right to be concerned. Anything involving Sidhe is going to be messy," comforted Zachary, getting up from his seat and making his way to the teapot, "but we need to examine what we know first. At the moment, we only have a fraction of the picture. From what I got from that man on Annwn, there is so much more to this. And the trouble is, almost all of it has been lost. We need more data about what's happened in the past. What else is involved and what happened to Force ξ when they landed on Annwn."

Arthur then sat bolt upright, clenching the sides of the armchair very tightly. "Force ξ? The ones who went missing in the Sixth Occult War?"

Zachary nodded as he handed him a fresh mug. "They were the ones we found on Annwn. It seems like some of their ghosts are involved in that man's call to arms - what is it?"

Arthur's face had taken a calculated look. His eyes bounced about, as though he was flicking through a book. In time, he nodded slowly, murmuring, "There is an anomaly in Scotland. In the Highlands. It was one of my early cases after I'd graduated from Nottingham. At the time, I just thought the guy was having me on, but if what you've found out is true, then this is -"

Just then, a loud buzzing came from Zachary's pocket. Reaching in, he pulled out his bleeper and read the text, his face contorting with anger and panic as he did so.

"What's happened?"

Without answering, Zachary dashed to the door and pulled on his blue blazer, fury in his eyes. "Shit. Shit Shit." He opened the door and indicated for Arthur to get up and follow. "There's been a breach."

The hound, disturbed by the clashes and bangs, lifted its head in surprise. It pawed the ground. Something was happening in the world. Something familiar. It blocked out the siren sounds and sniffed the air. A scent came to it. A smell of something enchanted and secret. It growled. In its mind, a memory from years ago flashed briefly. Images of winged creatures, seawater and screaming men came. As it remembered, the rubber spheres where its eyes had been began to soften and ignite at the edges. "It's them," it thought, snarling.

A loud bang interrupted its thoughts, as one of the doors at the edge of the crossroad blew off its hinges. Outside, the sounds of screaming could be heard getting loud, joined by a caterwauling of screeches, whoops and howls. A hot light flashed, in chorus with a strange mechanical voice. The thing's scent was stronger now, causing the hound's blood to boil. But something had changed. With the road destroyed, it heard it. The call. Another memory came to the hound. One of a man dressed in antlers and furs. A man the hound loved and was loyal to. His face was stained with blood, mud and tears. His people dying. His home taken. In its mind, the hound heard his master's voice for the first time in millennia, utter its true name.

"Gelert."

Without considering what it was running into, the hound left its crossed prison and ran into the screams and light. The ground shook as from out of the floor in front of it, vines with blood-stained spikes shot out and wrapped around the walls and floor. The hound, unfazed, walked through them as if they were air and continued on, leaving the flora to cinder where it had exited. It only thought of its master.

Blind, yet guided by sound and smell, the hound pelted along the stone floors and jumping through the steel walls, it finally reached the outdoors. The cold air met its snout and it felt the comforting dampness of night and the light of the moon on its fur. It had been so long since it had been free. The night felt good.

The scent came back. It was near. The thing. One of his and his master's adversaries. A usurper. He'd named them 'Gwyllion', a wild thing of hidden places. Strengthening its stand, the hound sniffed the air. In the cold sea air, it found it. "There you are," it thought and ran towards it. With the force of a cannon, it pinned the thing to the ground. It felt different than it remembered. This one had no wings and its body felt denser. But the scent was the same. Good enough.

"I wouldn't kill me, Shuck," said the thing. The hound felt an invisible force grab its throat and squeeze gently. Its legs left the ground, hovering a few inches above the grass. "I would've thought your kind would've returned to your creators since your master's imprisonment. You've lost those red ears you were so proud of." The hound howled and tried to kick the ground, the rubber in its eye sockets beginning to melt and ignite. It wanted to kill. Not with its cursed eyes, but properly. With fangs and claws. It wanted bloodshed. "That curse must have caused you such turmoil. If you liked, I could put you out of your misery".

Suddenly, the invisible force pushed against its stomach and the hound was thrown aside. "Killing you would be easy. But no fun. This war that is to come will be long. I wish to be entertained whilst I fight," the thing laughed, "Run to your master, little wolf. I expect he's longing to see you." The hound flayed around, looking for the scent, but it was weakening. Dampened by the smell of fire, mud and blood. There was no choice. Its master was calling. Annoyed that his kill had escaped, the hound turned on its paws and ran into the night. "Run along little wolf," said the voice, "We'll fight again soon."

Multiple containment breaches detected. All personnel report to the nearest safe room. Containment Sector 4 blast doors will seal in 10 seconds. Multiple containment breaches detected. All personnel report to -

Even with the sirens blasting warning across Site-44, the howling from the beasts and monsters drowned everything out. Grows, screeches, hisses, spitting and various inhuman sounds. On the banks of the Dengie Flats, Terry watched the fires grow, releasing great pills of smoke into the night sky. "I think we're done here," he said, putting the papers he'd grabbed from the site records into the bag and swinging it onto his back.

Suddenly, the sound of faint whistling and gurgling came from the woodland nearby. From out of the brambles, seven deer walked out awkwardly, their unnatural eyes fixed on Terry. "What are you then?" said Terry, looking the creatures up and down. These were not of the beasts he'd released during its escape. Nor were they the ones he'd remembered witnessing while incubating within his former host's mind. These things were something new.

Steadily, one of the antlered deer limped forward, its misshapen jaw opening and closing awkwardly as it attempted to make a sound. A black viscous liquid appeared to well up around its sharp teeth. "I don't think so," tittered Terry, and pointed a finger at the deer. With a flick, the deer was forced onto its hind legs, its' skin appearing to tighten. As it was squeezed, the other deer, who'd attempted to approach, began to make a series of gagging sounds, occasionally uttering words. "Hello. We are together. Hello. Hello." Terry laughed cruelly and made a fist. Within seconds, a sickly cracking noise came from inside the antlered deer. Its abdomen contracted and its dark innards squirted out of its mouth. The black mass quivered for a moment, then stopped.

Terry shot a look at the rest of the pack, all of whom were staring back with something like fear in their human-like eyes. "There are more of you, aren't there," Terry spat, walking towards the nearest member, "Where are they?" The pack remained motionless, though the fat and skin of some of them wiggled slightly. Annoyed, Terry lifted a hand, causing the deer to stiffen. "I know you can understand me. I killed your leader easily. You work for my kind now, understand?" A moment passed before one of the deer approached and spoke, moving its jaw clumsily.

"Hello. You. It's you."

"Good," said Terry, taking that as a sign of obedience, "Now, let's go. Your new masters will be waiting."

"My god."

Zachary had never seen such a mess. The Cryptobiology Station was in ruin, with the walls splattered with various types of blood, saps and other sticky substances. There was an awful farmyard smell, which made Zachary and Arthur's eyes water. As they walked through the rubble, several animals and anomalies sounded from the recovery cages. Most of them were badly injured and were being looked over by personnel of the Cryptozoology Division. Arthur kept slowing down to goggle at the creatures like a greedy child walking through the sweet shop.

"Clearance Pass," said the security officer, opening a hand. The two rolled their eyes and handed the passes over. The officer looked at them and made a gruff sniff. "Sorry, sirs. Only biological-related departments or containment officers are permitted at the moment. You'll have to wait."

"My good man," said Arthur, trying to sound authoritative, "We need to speak with Researcher Ozz. It's a matter of importance."

"Researcher Ozz is currently tending to the new containment cells for our 3934 instances. He will be available as soon as he's -"

"Let us passed," said Zachary in a stern voice, his eyes fixed on the officer in a tranquil glare.

For the next 10 seconds, the officer became overwhelmed with blue and purple thoughts and was blissfully unaware he was moving. By the time his concentration returned, the two men had already waltzed pass.

"Zach," Arthur hissed, staring at Zachary with a look of disgust and annoyance, "did you really have to?"

"I'm in a rush Arthur. There are times for security and there are times for people to get out of the way."

"But you know how people feel about you doing that. You can't just use your abilities willy-nilly. Do you want to get another O5 letter of -"

"This is important," Zachary assured, and for a second, Arthur saw his green eyes flash. "Don't get delicate and come on. I can see Ozz over there."

Ozz was a distinctive man. From the outside, he looked like an army cadet, sporting a shaved head and a rather heavy face, warped slightly from all the frowning he did. He smelt strongly of straw and the farmyard. In his shirt pocket, several small chew toys poked out, many of them decorated with unusual bite marks. His lab coat, which was typically lightly coated with various animal hairs, was sporting several new rips. He was busying himself with his interns, showing them a diagram of a large lake.

"Now make sure the younglings get plenty of seaweed. Their jaws will take a while to heal, so maybe chop them up before serving," Ozz said to his interns, who nodded and briskly walked away. But before he could run off, Zachary dashed over and grabbed him by the shoulder, with Arthur shuffling behind, a little breathless. "Zach? Arthur? What are you doing here? You can't be here. Only biologists and related departments."

"I know, but we need to talk."

"Zach, not now! I've got to run up to the humanoid cell. It was a full moon last night and we're still having trouble sorting the real bricks from the 2537's."

"It was Terry, wasn't it? He did this."

At the mention of the name, Ozz's face fixed. He glanced around and took the two men along the corridor, into a nearby wrecked cell. Having checked that nobody was around, Ozz gave Zach an annoyed look. "I thought you had it covered, Zach? Didn't you do some hypnosis on him or something?"

"I did what I could!" protested Zachary, "The only thing I could offer was psionic defence exercises and that only works if you use rigorous mnemonic and verbal anchoring. But given what's happened, Terry must have let his guard down and chose to let it in. Now that thing is Terry."

"But you've dealt with these things, right? Before you came to the Foundation. You keep going on about how much you dislike them. I would've thought something like this would've been easy for you to deal with?"

"None of this is easy."

"What about your weird purple thing?", asked Ozz, pointing at Zachary's mouth, "Or is that just for push-in at the canteen?"

Zachary's eyes narrowed. "Let that go, Ozz. I stopped doing that ages ago. Plus, Indigo affects the nervous system, not the mind. This is some advanced psionic and oneiric grafting, undertaken since toddlerhood. It knew Terry inside out, literally. We only managed to discover it at the last minute. Anyhow, Sidhe have a completely different psychic layout to humans. If I had -"

"Eight people have died, Zach!"

"And more likely will if we don't take this further!"

The two men scowled at each other until a cough came from behind them.

"Ozz, why don't you tell us what happened last night," asked Arthur, taking the kindly gentlemanly route.

"The anomaly - Terry that is - broke out at around 3 am last night. It took out two of the security officers on the way, displaying some kind of thaumaturgical capabilities as it did so. It then headed for the lower levels and shorted the power supply. Then all hell broke loose. The animals got out, went nuts and caused a rampage, killing six other personnel in the process. Thankfully, Lucy and some of her Gamma-4s were around so they managed to get most of the things under control. Still, the whole of the Station has to be rewired and a good portion of it needs to be remodelled. We're moving what we can to 12, 46 and 91 until we can have things back up and running."

Zachary slumped down on a chunk of rubble and buried his face in his hands. Arthur had been right. He did regret not having his tea. The three men sat in silence for a moment, listening to the choral of animals barking. Finally, Arthur piped up and asked, "Did anything go missing? You know, besides Terry."

"A few of the more intelligent cases got out, 6448 being our greatest concern there. The Stags are out looking for them. There were a couple of unregistered things and two of the newest cryptobotany cases. The Madagascan man-eating tree things. But that's the least of our worries."

Zachary and Arthur look at one another. "Least?"

Terry looked over the papers again, trying his best to try and find something useful. His host had not been an avid reader of documentation, meaning much of the technical jargon was unknown to him. Rereading the page detailing the layout of Site-46, he reached for the flask of tea the couple had made and drank the weak, leaf liquid. Humans had such jaded pallets.

A grunt from the deer brought Terry out of his studies. Looking up, he saw them standing bolt upright, staring down at the two beaten humans, who were grunting uncomfortably, trying to awaken from their semi-conscious state. They looked at their clothes carefully, gnashing their teeth. "Leave them," commanded Terry. Without question, the deer walked away, giving Terry a fearful look.

"What are these," came a voice. The deer twisted their heads in odd angles as from out of the forest, a man dressed in a fine, black suit walked out. He was a very handsome man, sporting long black hair and a clean-cut beard, which stood out against his perfect skin. His eyes, though, were of unnatural white and blueness, with a slight fractal of black circling the iris. Terry sneered but greeted the man politely.

"New pets for our cause. The king made sure we gathered as many resources as we could once we got out. Would you sit," he said. The man nodded and the two sat at the picnic bench, facing each other. When comfortable, the suited man reached into his mouth. With a slight click, he pulled out a set of veneers, revealing yellowing fangs, stained brown at the tips. "Must you do that," grimaced Terry, as the man let his jaw adjust and relax.

"You haven't undergone extensive surgery," said the man, pulling his hair back, and exposing scarred ears. "Let an old man enjoy his remaining features." Terry rolled his eyes and returned to the documents. "What are these," asked the man, picking up a file marked SCP-023. An image of a large dog was attached. Terry gave it a knowing smile.

"Papers I managed to recover from their hideouts. You know. The ones calling themselves, The Foundation." The man gave a knowing nod. "Any news from you people? Have you located the nephew, Delbáeth?"

"My men believe he has migrated to the Americas. New York, we think. Soho. We hear he has taken to the bottle since the loss of his uncle and cousin. We shall find him. He'll be easily dealt with. Do not worry."

"Good," said Terry, "but detain him. No destruction or death. We do not want another Cornwall Incident." He could see the man eyeing up the two subdued humans, licking his teeth hungrily.

"I also heard that one of your lot had an encounter with another group. In Portland. They had a ghost with them." Terry's eyes narrowed as the man laughed mockingly. "Is it true? The Mabyn have returned?"

Terry looked down at the photo of the dog again. "If they are, why should we worry? There is nothing left of them to be of any great threat."

"Really," tittered the man, "I remember the last time they faced you. If I recall, your kind were the ones who faced the great threat."

"They will be dealt with at the right time," snapped Terry, "Just like the Tuatha. Now go. Go and feast on what's left in those humans and leave me to do my reading. I will come back to you once I have found what I need."

The man nodded his head curtly, smiling nastily. He left the table and made his way to the humans, teeth bared. Within seconds, his mouth and most of his clean suit were coated in blood and flesh. Ignoring the moans of quenching, Terry put the pages marked Site-91: Facilities and Layout down and reached for a large file marked Foundation Personnel: British Isle. As he flicked through, checking the images pinned to the profiles, he caught a familiar figure. A man in a blue suit, with green eyes, donning white gloves.

Green eyes?

Pausing, Terry read the profile description, thinking back to his time in the cells. Dr. Zachary Taliesin Dafydd; Psychoanalysis; Department of Anomalous Humanoid Psychology. So this was the man who'd tried to have him suppressed. The one who'd walked his dreams. The one with the orchid voice. Though it wasn't powerful stuff, Terry was nonetheless impressed. Humans were typically not the most natural psychics, yet this man had managed to put some defences up. Not effective ones but still, how? Curiously, he inspected the history and came across the word. Theriomorphism. An understanding grin spread across Terry's face. So that's why he wore gloves. That's how he knew to put up defences.

"Game on, Zachary," he said, stroking the image of Dr. Dafydd, "Game on."

By the time Zachary reached his quarters in Site-12, he was exhausted. Shutting the door with a slam, he looked down at the numerous papers in his hand. Growling tiredly, he threw them onto his desk. He could not be arsed to collate them now. Walking to his sofa, he reached into the side cabinet and pulled out the seaweed rum he'd got from Cornwall, pouring himself a substantial amount. "There are things better than tea," he thought, thinking of Arthur.

He caught himself in the mirror taking a swig. The face that looked back was normal. Brown hair, beard, wine-red bow tie. Slowly, he walked toward the mirror, gazing into the green eyes. As he looked, something Arthur said came back to him. "What happens to them? The people. The owners of the bodies these - parasites have infested." The word parasite sat substantially in Zachary's mind.

Without thinking he put his glass down and removed his left hand glove. He was mildly surprised at the ordinary pink skin underneath them. He focused, breathed steadily and let the glamour go. In a second, the pink skin had become coated with patches of brown and white fur. The nails were now claws and a hard epidermis appeared on the palms like paws. In the mirror, Zachary saw the face had changed. Now, it sported a snout-like, twitching nose and tufts of fur growing from his forehead into his whiskered cheeks. Along with his normal ears, two additional, long hare ears had popped out from beneath his hair. His green eyes remained, distinctive against the fur and beard.

"He knows, you know. Terry. He knows I'm in here. He knows what you are," said the voice.

Zachary ignored it, downed the rum in one gulp and pulled his glove back on. He stormed to his desk, sorting the papers Arthur gave him and opened his laptop, logging into the Foundation terminal.

"Do they know? Does Arthur? Siwan? Ozzy? Your Site Manager? Do you know about -"

"Go away," boomed Zachary, looking at his reflection on the screen, addressing his eyes. Addressing the thing locked away. The voice hushed, and Zachary felt it sulk away into the very back of his mind. Focusing, he opened the email terminal and selected the email marked Project Caliburn.

Come away, O human child…

A World Full of Weeping

Anomaly-306