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SCP-5656: DEEPWATER DOWNWELL

Author: Pedantique

Author Page: Dr. Dentick's Personnel File

Heron & Hound Commentary Corner:

"Egret."

"Hey, Dhole, welcome back."

"You're using me for this?"

"Yeah."

"I suppose remorse would be too much to expect."

"Yeah."

"You make a good mutt."

"Go back to sleep, Dhole. There's more work to do."

"I hate you, Egret. Truly. Forever."

"Yeah."

Welcome back, Tamara Otten. Today is February 2, 2073. Your inbox currently contains no unread emails. There are no remaining entries on your schedule today. The temperature outside is 26°F, your employment-mandated medicine must be taken within 183 minutes, and your horoscope for today is 'forgiving old grudges will bring new happiness.'

Recognized voice command: "Open SCP-5656 documentation."

Loading document now…

GPS IIA satellite platform being prepared for future SCP-5656 habitation by Foundation personnel.

Item #: SCP-5656

Object Class: Safe

Special Containment Procedures: Replacement satellites for all global navigation systems are to be primed for SCP-5656 cultivation prior to launch through the installation of beacon equipment and additional gas dispersion canisters. Satellite trajectories are to be altered through suborned control stations to account for additional mass in order to suppress inquiries and maintain constellation integrity. Ongoing engagement with SCP-5656 as a whole shall proceed according to updated charter stipulations (see Addendum 5656-E).

Access to information obtained through the OKMGLOS surveillance network may be obtained through authorized RAISA liaisons.

Description: SCP-5656 is a species of extraterrestrial organism that exhibits extreme thaumatic sensitivity. 213 discrete instances have been observed since their initial discovery in 1995, when the additional mass of an attached instance significantly distorted the trajectory of a GPS-IIR satellite. Mature SCP-5656 instances measure approximately 10 meters long and are morphologically similar to medusa-phase Medusozoans, consisting of one central bell that trails an assortment of tentacles and fringes. These appendages are specialized for a number of functions, including delicate manipulation of physical objects, secretion of exotic substances, and interface with electrical equipment.

SCP-5656 instances attach to artificial satellites in geostationary and high-earth orbits following periods of intermittent drifting on solar winds. Once attached, they absorb orbital debris and collect gasses vented for satellite altitude adjustments to replenish internal mineral reserves. SCP-5656 instances disconnect from host satellites after approximately 2.4 years of sustained habitation, leaving behind genetic material that is employed in future reproductive cycles.

All known SCP-5656 instances are currently incorporated into the OKMGLOS full-spectrum surveillance network. This was accomplished following the implementation of technologies derived from Project DEEPWATER DOWNWELL, as well as direct communication conducted under the auspices of the Overseer Council. Current OKMGLOS capabilities enable triangulation of any terrestrial entity emitting a thaumatic signature, encompassing 100% of the baseline human population and large portions of active anomalous entities.1

Addendum 5656-A (Overview of Applied Technology):

Addendum 5656-B (Communication Records (Original Files)):

Addendum 5656-C (Communication Records (Post-Interpretation)):

Addendum 5656-D (Original Charter Text):

Addendum 5656-E (Comprehensive Updated Charter Text):

Addendum 5656-F (Incident 566-007013 Review):

Recognized voice command: "Yeah, maybe that's it. Let's go through everything one more time."

Opening all pertinent files…

a_holt_voicemail_175.mp3

a_holt_voicemail_175.mp3

FROM: Amanda Holt

DATE: JAN 22, 2073

TIME: 0636

Tamara, I'm tasking you to the team looking at a Nu-18 catch-and-gut operation that went particularly wrong. They're understaffed, so the lifting might be heavier than usual. I know this isn't your usual focus, but the Overseers want to get ahead of this one. Trouble is brewing across the Atlantic, and the possibility of a major distraction or second front is making them antsy. Nobody's happy when the Overseers are antsy.

You'll get paper orders tomorrow, but start today. I don't trust the last administration's leftovers after that mess in Istanbul. Not to do it right. Not to do it fast. Hell, who knows if they'll get it done at all. You're my ace on this. Figure out what happened, or at least see if the spooky kids need to take a closer look. They said it smells normal, but I'm not sure I trust their noses either.

Don't let me down.

case_HSCR_9091_IP_VF3.mp4

case_HSCR_9091_IP_VF3.mp4

Location: United States; Hazard, Nebraska; 68844; 104 Dewitt St.

Source: Body camera footage provided by MTF Nu-48 ("Swatting Fireflies").

Background: MTF Nu-48 was dispatched to address a possible abduction of two Foundation personnel in the Midwestern United States. Subcutaneous beacon signals led to Maury's Corner Store, Delicatessen, and Endless Salad Bar. Camouflaged trucks equipped with amnestic broadcasting capabilities were positioned at a one-block perimeter around the structure to minimize societal disruption and loss of life, as per Ethics Committee direction.

Playing video file now…

Empathetic claws grip your body as crystal-clear footage plays on-screen. They pull hard, sucking you into the video, and into the heavy boots of a nameless Nu-48 operative. HINDSIGHT training shapes minds perfectly for such things. It kneads and twists them, wringing gray matter until thoughts drip out to run through history's cracks. Even amongst a legion of malleable minds, you always dived the deepest.

Black boots thud against linoleum as your small team sweeps through a small shop. It's the oldest in town, made clear by sagging shelves and fading wallpaper. The owner is trapped in his own little spiral along with a handful of other patrons. They move in millimeters. They live in milliseconds. You shake your head after waving a gloved hand in front of one face. Being stuck like that would be worse than dying, but it won't last long.

You advance past a caloric hellscape of potato chips, sodas, and worse. Some shelves are nearly sold out, while others seem untouched by long years of business. A security camera stares at the shop's back door, red light blinking steadily, but it might as well be off. No records will remain of your passage. Even live feeds bear nothing but static-filled shadows. One by one, your sworn brothers and sisters confirm their readiness to do violence. Shrouds: active. Weapons: loaded. Hearts: hardened. You nod to each other and ascend the rickety stairs.

A tracking signal pings from the building's second-floor apartment in slow, steady blips. Thermal imaging peels away the walls, but nothing inside is clear. Warm blobs mix and merge within curtains of heat, taking on gnarled visages. Nothing human lurks inside, your eyes insist, but that's never stopped Nu-48 before. The team's GECOM orders a breach operation. Neither shock nor awe have ever been applied in too extreme an abundance, even against foes trapped within five seconds of persistent forgetfulness.

Concussive charges are placed along the wall, all primed to beat a destructive rhythm into cracked paint and crumbling drywall. Your squad arrays itself in a manner practiced thousands of times over. The order is given. The wall ruptures. You raise your gun toward dim shapes solidifying within the dusty cloud. Six shift in the jittery disorder typical of those experiencing rolling amnestics. Four move with precision and grace, and all are armed.

Time compresses, as it always does in the sublime seconds of first blood. Your eyes drift towards a scrawny figure wearing a canine mask. Its maw is carved into a snarl and glass shines in its eyes. Short strands of black hair flutter in the sudden breeze. Tendons tense in a smooth neck. They reach inside an unzipped sweatshirt, showing the barest glimpse of a pistol. They pause for a moment's slightest fraction, then race for an open window. You're already firing at the three remaining combatants. They fire back from behind upturned furniture reinforced with metal plates.

A hundred sparks fill the dark, dusty room. Bullets ding off metal and chip at walls. They dig through flesh too, biting and burrowing like a swarm of ticks. You're armored though; they are not. You stand invincible in comparison. You stand a god, dispensing justice and violence. Bullets find one of the three, toppling him with a spray of blood from a leaking forehead. Your GECOM orders the remaining pair's apprehension once their fire ceases. Nothing could be easier. Zip-ties and deprivation-masks will render them little more than fleshy sacks, ready to be dragged down into the Foundation's nearest hole.

Dust drifts. Silence looms. Shapes slither from behind the fortified couches. All three combatants close with your team in the split-second of hesitation between lethal solutions and your commander's orders. The one with a split forehead slips under a burst of gunfire and tackles you. Black ink on his neck depicts a snarling dog. Blood on his chin drips down, hot and thick. A knife appears in one of his hands. You catch his wrist, then his forearm. Unnatural strength drives it further down. Something glistens in his eyes, deep and hungry. His head pops like an overripe grape beneath your comrade's bullet.

He cuts through your neck nevertheless. Through veins, through muscle, through esophagus and spine. The blow's a terrible one, and you don't survive. The ghoul clinging to your corpse won't either. In that much, you can take solace.

The video ends. Claws ease, and tendons relax. You are yourself again, with only a phantom ache lingering between vertebrae C4 and C5.

Concluding Notes: Four Nu-48 personnel suffered fatal wounds from bladed instruments and cranial explosives at close range. Three enemy combatants suffered extensive wounds and ceased movement. Their corpses were further incapacitated through blunt trauma to reduce the efficacy of any postmortem activity.

A sweep of the apartment revealed minimal living facilities in addition to equipment for medium-term human restraint. Beacon chips registered to missing Foundation personnel were found in a semi-damaged state and running exclusively on internal batteries. No additional hostiles were located. No abducted personnel were located.

Civilians were evacuated from the structure under standard pretenses. Further investigation of the second-floor apartment area revealed stores of equipment and chemicals typically associated with dental surgery, as well as destroyed communications equipment. Corpses of enemy combatants were removed for further study.

autopsy_summary_personal_notes.txt

autopsy_summary_personal_notes.txt

TITLE: Autopsy Summary

DATE: JAN 24, 2073

TIME: 2044

All three combatants are between 30-40 y/o and were in above-average physical condition before getting shot to pieces. Digested food suggests they've been in the area for about one week. Several tattoos on each body, but nothing notable beyond some canine themes. All members of the same organization? No similar tattoos on the six who were affected by amnestics.

Extensive tissue damage due to projectiles, obviously. Brain matter from two was destroyed in localized explosions after getting pinned down. No explosives were found in the third's possession. Additional muscular atrophy observed in all of them, source unknown. Possibly related to hyper-mobility and aggression? Traces of extensive combat experience on all three, but it's hard to be certain now. Getting information on the old bullet lodged in #3's spine might give some hints.

Chemical analysis shows traces of an unidentified compound in all three's bloodstreams. Initial tests didn't peg it to any recreational drugs or conventional medicines. Comparisons with recorded medicinal anomalies are underway, but none of it feels familiar. The Hand's bookbinders move faster, but they're plainly weird. The Insurgency had shock troops dosed with Compound-63, but their bodies always melted afterwards. Might just have to wait for more tests.

Subjects remain unidentified after the usual checks against medical records, criminal records, personnel documentation, and all other available information. Partial matches aren't close to conclusive. That itself speaks to a certain divorce from society, especially since it applies to all three. Oral surgery evident in the one whose head didn't explode. An effort to prevent tracking through dental records? Destruction of beacons or other tech? Figure this all out, and fast.

[RELEVANT EMAIL RECORDS]

[RELEVANT EMAIL RECORDS]

TO: Tamara Otten (lanretni.noitadnuof|netto.t#lanretni.noitadnuof|netto.t)

FROM: Amanda Holt (lanretni.noitadnuof|90.tloh.a#lanretni.noitadnuof|90.tloh.a)

SUBJECT: Re: Revised Tasking

Tamara,

The bodies are interesting, but they will keep in cold storage. Find the one who got away. We'll get quicker answers that way, even if it requires unpleasant methods. They slid past our net once, so you'll have to get creative. I picked you for a reason.

Holt

TO: Tamara Otten (lanretni.noitadnuof|netto.t#lanretni.noitadnuof|netto.t)

FROM: Janelle McDavis (lanretni.noitadnuof|20.sivadcm.j#lanretni.noitadnuof|20.sivadcm.j)

SUBJECT: Re: Research Outreach (read before lunch)

Tamara, it's good to hear from you again. My family is fine, thanks for asking, but no surprise there. It's easy to feel like nothing ever changes when my office is buried under such a massive rock. I'm glad reassignment hasn't sunk you under one too.

As to the matter you mentioned, two explanations come to mind:

Possibility 1: Compulsion. I'm sure this is why you pinged me, but it's not a likely explanation. Humanity's MIR scores have been climbing too quickly for that to be a feasible explanation for resistance to amnestics and erratic behavior. The bloodstream chemicals don't sound right either, though that's not my particular area of expertise. Either way, anything delicate enough to make people move like that probably wouldn't survive the first abrasion zone these days.

Possibility 2: I'm reminded of rumors that bounced around in our little medical community a decade or so ago about the weird traditions in Alpha-1. If I remember correctly, their members supposedly carried something called a 'last-stop express.' Pills for when there wasn't any hope left. A few of the hard-line task forces are issued suicide pills, so I suppose that lends it some credibility. These were supposed to flush brains of everything but basic allegiances and violent skills. No secrets to divulge. No distractions left. They were supposedly distributed by the higher powers themselves, so I wouldn't be surprised by any additional exotic effects. No one would leave fetishes like that lying around.

I'm sorry to say that my recommendation is to go chasing after some thugs' superstitions, but that's what comes to mind, and Alpha-1 members would be inoculated against that specific amnestic strain.

Yours, Jan

TO: Tamara Otten (lanretni.noitadnuof|netto.t#lanretni.noitadnuof|netto.t)

FROM: Yuji Iizuka (lanretni.noitadnuof|akuzii.y#lanretni.noitadnuof|akuzii.y)

SUBJECT: Requested Analysis

I don't like being the go-to for picking old colleagues out of a lineup. Talk to someone who's still in that office next time. That, or put it through official channels.

Bottom line: Yes, they're probably ours.

Skip to timestamp 1813 in the file you tagged as V5: Note the sour cream & onions chips being nearly sold out compared to the others. It could be a coincidence, but they were the only flavor in St. Eustace's cafeteria when I went through (probably to mask supplements' tastes), and they were always popular in Alpha-1.

At 1817: Use of space heaters and environmental elements to confuse thermals was in our textbook on dealing with internal detection and counterforce. Other MTFs don't usually get assigned reading like that, and definitely don't practice it as much as we did.

At 1820: Reinforcing furniture for cover like this is habitual. So are things like rigging that shotgun to the door. The firing lines they set up in advance here aren't unique, but they are familiar. Familiar body language too. Dog Mask pats the spot where I would have carried a hold-out pistol before they run. Habits die hard.

At 1832: These are standard restraints for an Alpha-1 catch house, though they aren't usually configured for more than one or two at a time. Six captives is a lot. Everything else is unfamiliar, especially the dental tools, but I've been out of the field for a while now. Enhanced interrogation would have caused more wear and tear though, so they might be showpieces.

Last, to answer your pill question: that information isn't mine to divulge. Old habits die hard for us all. Submit whatever other requests you want through my handler, but we're even now.

TO: Tamara Otten (lanretni.noitadnuof|netto.t#lanretni.noitadnuof|netto.t)

FROM: Will Phillips (lanretni.noitadnuof|31.spillihp.w#lanretni.noitadnuof|31.spillihp.w)

SUBJECT: this bullshit

Hey.

Someone fucked up. 23 former A-1 operatives slipped through the cracks according to my best count. I'm running outreach with their new OPCOM right now, but he's an asshole of the highest order. Messages are out to the other task forces who lug around big guns too, but I'm more worried about the 23. I'm especially worried if they're off the stuff that's supposed to keep them human.

I only touched the Z-1 integration process after our new O5s rolled in from the EC, but my understanding was that they were doing something about A-1's nastier elements. I know for a fact that a few court cases got drummed up in the early days, and there was some talk of a wipe-and-release program too. Not much use for an attack dog you don't trust, but we ended up keeping a bunch for the 'institutional expertise.' That's about when I got shipped over to the team opening up the old O5s' vaults.

With what the A-1 OPCOM passed over, I've got ID for the more intact body on ice: FID#612003. Based on physical markers, your two other corpses are probably FID#510111 and FID#016886. I don't have deep enough access to see their full files, but both got pushed out of A-1 just before everything rolled over. Voluntary amnestics are supposed to keep people on the amnestics, but who knows. We might have had a coverage gap in all the chaos.

I emphatically don't have ID on the dog mask. The OPCOM was even less help there. He noted the carjacking/murder flagged nearby probably pegs them for someone's wetwork division, but I could have figured that out. Still, my department has been updating a system that might help. I'll see about getting you read in on it.

Will

[OKMGLOS OUTPUT 050-997-072]

[OKMGLOS OUTPUT 050-997-072]

Tasking Summary:

Locate individual POI-95172 according to historical information. Identify frequent paths of travel. Identify frequent locations of rest or business.

Match to any groups in the GOI registry above 30%. Match to any individuals in the POI registry above 60%. Match to any individuals in accessible personnel records above 0%.

Results Summary:

POI-95172 signature has been locked and tagged. Fringe signature in the 33E51M spectrum segment, an octant typically associated with persistent thaumatic constructs and anomalous entities exhibiting monopurpose objective ranking.

Signature correlates to Serpent's Hand (GOI-11) Cell 13 at 49%. Signature correlates to Serpent's Hand (GOI-11) Cell 17 at 50%. Signature correlates to modern Chaos Insurgency (GOI-181) Cell 5 at 84%. Signature correlates to POI-4157 at 61%. Signature correlates to POI-10556 at 62%. Signature correlates to POI-20254 at 64%. Signature correlates to FID#715316 at 94%.

Precise location data and compiled heat map have been distributed directly.

Authorized users may access secure OKMGLOS stations for complete reporting data.

scraped_personnel_record(715316).txt

scraped_personnel_record(715316).txt

Name: Elizabeth Cooper-Hughes

FID#: 715316

Last Available Security Clearance: L–3/TSQ/MDI

DOB: January 8, 2031

LOB: Hell, Michigan, United States

Biographical Summary: [REDACTED]

Last Available Pay Grade: E-4

Last Available Assignment: MTF Alpha-1

Last Available Station: Site-01

Certifications: A-1 Marksmanship, A-1 Physical Fitness, Exotic Biohazard Safety, French Language Fluency, Heavy Machinery Repair, Nonstandard Reality Acclimation and Preparedness (Expired), Operational Infohazard Safety, Advanced IED Construction.

Employment Status: Terminated

case_HSCR-9091_IP_VF8.mp4

case_HSCR-9091_IP_VF8.mp4

Location: United States; Junction, Illinois; 62954

Source: Body camera footage provided by MTF Gamma-3 ("Bruised and Bloody Knuckles").

Background: MTF Gamma-3 was dispatched to apprehend POI-95172 in Junction, Illinois based on intelligence gathered by sensitive sources and methods. UAV overflight tracked POI-95172 to an area of outlying wilderness, and orders were issued to execute planned operations that night. Kill or capture authorization issued by designated Gamma-3 Ethics Committee liaison.

Playing video file now…

You're dragged in once again. Autonomous drones sweep through the night sky, barely buzzing over cicadas' songs. Fractal cameras watch for the slightest movement. Nothing heavier has been authorized, but violence yet lurks high above. You yearn to speak the words that will rouse the NGRAF weapons platform from its sleep. Missiles never look so beautiful as when they streak across the starry sky.

A dirt path winds through the shadows. None step foot on it. Traces of upturned dirt along its edges are plenty warning, as are the lights flashing on your personal sniffers. Instead, you slide between tree trunks and prickly bushes. Branches crunch underfoot. Vermin dart from disturbed nests. Step by step, hill by hill, you advance towards the cabin perched atop a high ridge. It cuts a dark silhouette across the sky, reminding you of camping trips and memorial barbecues. It bulges with mystery and malice, reminding of a lifetime's worth of night terrors. Your hand tightens around your rifle.

Fifteen shades sweep through the treeline, following the slow advance of harsh spotlights. No one could miss such a sight from within the cabin. None could escape the encirclement either, even with so much cover. Your briefing noted your prey's expertise, long-trained doggedness, and career in a company of monsters wearing human skin. Well, you've put bullets through the skulls of worse.

Hard eyes sweep back and forth as you approach. Bayonets slice through razor wire. Sensors pick out hidden explosives. A quagmire of death and danger is faced without hesitation. It's hard not to wonder where such expertise stemmed. Mined from Vietnam, perhaps. Tempered in Afghanistan, maybe. Sharpened to a keen edge in the gray battlefields of Central Europe, certainly. A history of underhanded violence is condensed into the forest, but you brave it all the same. Each heartbeat is proof of success. Each breath defies history's edge in the Foundation's name.

A nest of sparrows erupts into flight as you pass. In the wake of those flapping wings emerges a short, scrawny figure clad in black and gray. Black, gray, and bearing a dog's face. She silently raises a pistol to the back of your brother's neck.

Gunfire tears apart flesh and armor. You fire back, but Dog Mask lets your comrade's armor absorb the worst of it. She fires back from under one armpit. Warm streaks graze skin and drum into armor. Their percussion knocks air from your lungs, but fails to end steady heartbeats. Someone less resilient gurgles wetly over your com channel. There's no time to worry about them. Firing lines converge as your squad-mates respond, and the masked figure vanishes again. Disappears, but not down the half-camouflaged tunnel. No, disappears in a roiling cloud of dust and fire.

Deep-buried explosives shatter stone, rend earth, and sear trees. The ground roils underfoot like a solid sea. The air itself burns. In an instant, existence is cast into nightmarish hues. Shadows of fears made manifest are birthed and buried in every second. Against every scrap of training, you shield your face with one arm. Hot. Bright. Loud. You've been trapped in worse ovens before, but none so humiliating.

Your vision returns just in time to witness a grim scene. In the new clearing, Dog Mask leans low over Gamma-3's GECOM and plunges a knife into her throat. Without pause, attention, or apparent effort, she shoots one of your surviving comrades as he rises. His helmet splits open. His head does too. You fumble for your rifle, then your pistol. You look down and find the hand to be missing. Dog Mask notices.

Your remaining hand grasps your sidearm. It raises a fraction of a second before hers. It fires faster too. Tragedy's numbness is held at bay by years of experience, and you don't waver. The first round hammers into her center of mass. The second halves that snarling mask. Beneath is an androgynous face twisted into a worse snarl, leaking dark blood and punctuated by orange eyes. Scorn burns in them. Hotter than the fires all around, hotter than your seared stump, and hotter than the sun itself. You hate her. She hates you more.

Only now does your hand tremble. Only for a split-second, but she's already gone. You've wounded the specter. You've failed to slay it. A ghost remains, and no more hauntings can be permitted. Not after what this cost.

"Star-131, target's gone," you cough into your bone-mic. "Trace and execute pattern eight."

Fire streaks across the sky as you stumble off in pursuit of your comrades. There's still a cabin to search. Then you're yourself again, and there's still work to be done, no matter how disconcertingly your hand tingles.

Concluding Notes: Nine Gamma-3 personnel suffered fatal wounds from a combination of explosives, gunfire, and bladed weapons. POI-95172 was confirmed injured, then pursued via UAV and reserve Gamma-3 forces. POI-95172 evaded capture, obtained a vehicle, and escaped immediate pursuit. Classified tracking methods were reapplied, and relevant Foundation assets were put on high alert.

Gamma-3 elements searched the cabin theorized to be a base of operations for POI-95172. Several booby traps of varying lethality were disarmed in the process, and a camouflaged passage to several subterranean rooms was discovered. Their investigation uncovered a broader tunnel system that extends throughout the surrounding region. A full accounting of this area and its contents is pending due to safety concerns for involved personnel.

An initial investigation revealed large caches of firearms, ammunition, and precursor chemicals for explosive compounds. Extensive supplies of commercial stimulants and unidentified pharmaceuticals were found within the facility. Equipment typically associated with dental surgery was also discovered along with a large number of human teeth (largely molars, though not exclusively). Some recovered teeth were noted to bear signs of post-extraction drilling. No other human remains have been recovered.

[OKMGLOS OUTPUT 051-455-008]

[OKMGLOS OUTPUT 051-455-008]

Tasking Summary:

FLAGGED AS URGENT: Refine POI-95172 location data and track according to extant signature tagging. Provide rolling updates to support ongoing missions.

Results Summary:

At least 90 thaumatic signatures identical to POI-95172 have been detected worldwide. Technical issues have significantly decreased the precise triangulation of signature sources. Emanation points are largely concentrated in North America and Western Europe, with sparse distribution throughout Eastern Europe, North Africa, and Middle Eastern territories.

Precise location data and compiled heat map have been distributed directly.

Ongoing Action:

The current situation is considered to be an extreme divergence from standard conditions and is imposing considerable strain on individual OKMGLOS network nodes. Rolling updates are expected to be significantly delayed as a result. Referrals have been issued to Foundation departments focused on exotic sciences research for additional insight into causal events and possible outcomes. Requests have been issued to relevant mobile task forces to determine the precise location of mirrored emanation points.

The location of POI-95172 is not currently identifiable to any satisfactory degree of confidence.

Authorized users may access secure OKMGLOS stations for complete reporting data.

case_HSCR-9091_IP_AF23.mp3

case_HSCR-9091_IP_AF23.mp3

Location: United States; Detroit, Michigan; 48242; Detroit Metropolitan Airport

Source: Camouflaged microphone audio provided by Foundation Internal Security.

Background: Descriptions and photos of POI-95172 were distributed to agents stationed in transit hubs as part of a broader seek-and-snag operation. FIS agent Christopher Arundel approached an individual believed to be POI-95172 within a restaurant located near Gate 93 of the airport's McNamara Terminal.

Playing audio file now…

There's less for your mind to build on this time, trained and talented though it is. Just sounds. Just rustling napkins, clinking travel mugs, and the rumble of tired conversation. You sink in anyway. Toes, and ankles, and legs. You hold your breath as it washes over. Subsuming, then drowning. Breaths catch and freeze. Heartbeats race and slip. You look across the table at a person with far too much blood on her hands.

She looks exhausted. Hungover, maybe, if you had any confidence that wasn't an act. Subdued blue eyes don't fit the description you were given, and long blonde hair doesn't match the still frame you saw, but it feels right. Feelings are never amiss. Failure only stems from reactions, and your stilled face shows none.

"Where're you off to?" you ask before sipping from an overly-hot, overly-strong cup of coffee. Falling into character is easy, familiar, and comfortable.

"Mexico," she says before sighing and rubbing the palm of one hand against a red-rimmed eye. "I was supposed to be hiking with my friends, but there's this whole thing, and now I'd rather just sleep the whole time."

"Run into some trouble with your friends? That's always rough."

"Something like that, yeah."

She sips from her own cup, and your fingers curl around the panic button sewn into your jacket's lining. Feelings are never amiss, but they can mislead. Any sign of latent injuries will make things clear. A glance under those long bangs. A hint of bandages along the ribs. Help would arrive in minutes, and you would be wined, lauded, and promoted.

"Want to talk it out? Having a second set of ears never hurts."

"Sure, why not?" She yawns, covering a wide mouth with a hand covered in scrapes, scabs, and bruises. You stare a second longer than necessary to commit everything to memory. "Oh, but does the black moon howl?"

If you show any reaction at all, it's subdued. An eyebrow twitched, maybe, or an ear. Perhaps your eyes drifted away for a second, or your breath hitched. Whatever it is, it's enough. Her eyes harden. Her hand falls. Everything stills, as if in witness to what would transpire. Your fingers still too. Years of imagining what circumstances might require pressing that button fall short. They utterly fail to capture the creature sitting before you.

"Funny how everyone thinks those words are magic, isn't it?" she chirps, fingers tightening around a plastic fork. "Funny how ingrained they get. Put your hands on the table, alright? Or I'll have to pop your eyes out. Neither of us wants that."

Your hand lingers a second longer, then moves away. Button unpressed, sweat beading, you spread your fingers on the crumb-covered table. A hundred-pound advantage isn't enough to breed confidence when faced with such malignancy. Maybe two-hundred wouldn't be either. As if reading your doubts, a thin smile creeps across her face. Thin, gnarled, vile. It belongs on an aged war criminal content in old atrocities, not a twenty-something sitting in an airport Chipotle.

"What do you want?" you ask.

"I want you to swallow this." She produces a pill from one of her coat's many pockets. It's small, unmarked, and bright pink.

"What is it?"

"Think of it like an amnestic. We take them all the time."

"But what is it? Poison would make me forget too."

She just smiles. Shivers run up your spine, then down it. Sweat drenches your undershirt, then your shirt too. She toys with the fork's dull tongs, thumb pressing against each in turn. You blink. Acknowledging the very presence of your eyes feels awful, but more pressing thoughts fill your mind. If a quiet suicide is being requested, shouldn't you force a commotion at least? Don't you have that duty despite being abandoned in a dead-end post?

"A lot of people are going to die if you don't take it," she says cheerfully. "First, you. Then, everybody else who tries to stop me. Airport security. Police. Your backup. Whichever other traitors the Foundation sends after me. People caught in the crossfire. People who see me by mistake. People who have things I need. That's a lot, isn't it? Do you want that on your conscience? Just take the pill. You'll wake up in a few days, and there won't be any blood on your hands."

"You'll do worse things if I do."

She only smiles again. It's a bloody oath in shape, and a dreadful vow in spirit. You slowly move, reaching again for the panic button. Your shaking fingers wrap around the pill instead. It tastes like nothing at all, and feels like chalk going down your throat. Tears well up deep in their ducts. Across the table, a monster stares as your vision blurs and darkness encroaches. Uncaring faces of fellow patrons melt and drip. Lights swirl and burn. Atop her head sits a giant blue bird, and its tiny black eyes are the most hateful by far.

More chirps are recorded even after your consciousness has faded in full. Each is vibrant and violent. "You'll see, assholes. I'll show you what happens when you stab someone in the back. You aren't the only ones with teeth to spare."

When you're yourself again, each breath feels like sandpaper. Throat arid, tongue fossilized, all you can do is cough.

Concluding Notes: Agent Arundel was retrieved and debriefed 27 hours later. Tests indicate that he was dosed with a compound historically used by Foundation operatives for transport of non-cooperative prisoners and humanoid anomalies. Airport video footage captures POI-95172 boarding a plane bound for Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, France. Her departure was not captured by any available recording devices.

Recognized voice command: "Any news on my requests?"

Displaying request status now…

Report on current OKMGLOS operation status and expected reporting delays.
PENDING

Report on available information regarding thaumaturgic rituals involving human teeth.
PENDING

Report on declassification of POI-95172 operational history.
PENDING

Report on emerging GOI threat streams across Eurasian continent.
PENDING

SYSTEM NOTICE: An alert has been issued to all Foundation personnel.

[EMERGENCY ALERT]

[EMERGENCY ALERT]

ATTENTION: Enter compartmentalized lockdown immediately. Report individuals exhibiting any of the following signs:

• Recent dental surgery.

• Irregular speech patterns.

• Irregular body language.

• Irregular behavior.

All such individuals should be considered armed and highly dangerous. Treat all as mobile explosive hazards. Keep at distance. Do not attempt communication. Do not engage without support.

Contact site security at *99 to report suspicious individuals.

Contact emergency containment specialists at *39 if this counteracts current protocols.

Anyone running in the dark might trip on a root. Anyone fleeing a beast could slip in a puddle. Anyone with your training risks falling into someone else when panicked, and you're nothing if not that. This is the other shoe. This is what you were chasing after. If only everything could snap together in a moment of perfect clarity… But, no, such luck is elusive. No answers fall into your arms. No revelations spark in your frontal lobe. Surrendering to empathy's unrelenting grip is all that's left.

You stand in a darkened room. Not naturally dark, not with the studio lights erected all around, but dark to the scrap of your consciousness clinging tight to the slippery edge of a monster's mind. Honed empathy can only go so far. Preternatural imagination can only offer so much. That you have achieved such a state at all is a feat beyond meager training, but there's no pride in that. Only concern. Only desperation.

"I’m finished," you say in a now-familiar voice. Each word is awful and amused in equal parts. Blood pools around your boots, steaming and sticky. At the corner of one eye, a hand on the ground twitches slowly. It's beyond your concern now. It was never your concern. "Overseer, I’m finished. It’s publishing now."

"Perfect," comes an answer without words. It's a relief all the same. A comfort, from handler to hound. "And the next step?"

"In motion, ma’am."

"And there are enough of you?"

"More than enough. We’ll see it through."

"You’ve set fires for me before, ░░░░░. This one will need to be even brighter."

"I’ll singe the sky, ma'am. I’ll burn the world down for you."

"If that's what proves necessary to save it… You have your orders."

That you do. They're not worth yipping over, nor slavering for. Each satisfies though. Each makes use of your skills, and isn't that all that's ever mattered? You're done chewing on toys.

Footnotes

1. Thaumatic signatures are the collective output of an individual's emotional and rational interiors once filtered through a series of innate mental constructs. All individual consciousnesses are expected to exhibit unique signatures. For additional information, see Sotier, G. (1989). Signatures and Scribbles: Differentiating Between Discrete Thaumatic Outputs and Random Noise. Foundation Internal Journal of Exotic Sciences, 3(1), 12–81.